Yesterday during my humanities class my professor defined art as the expression of the human condition over time. He went on to say that only certain things can be characterized as art, and specifically that a kindergarten’s drawing with crayons is not.

Naturally, I was outraged.

Although I consider myself to be quite arrogant and an elitist, I am also equally outraged at anything that excludes others. In other words, I think I’m superior but I don’t think anyone should be excluded on the basis of being inferior. I know this sounds ludicrous and backwards, and I also know that freely admitting my elitist tendencies make me sound like a giant snob, but that’s who I am.

(Sidebar: I do not consider myself elite in all areas, quite the contrary. And I don’t really consider myself all that elite.)

So, sitting in class listening to this, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to say something. So, I challenged my professor. Let me tell you that my professor has a doctorate and he is well-traveled and well versed. He’s been doing this for a LONG time. I am well aware that I am inferior to him in just about every way. But I felt that art needed to be defended, and I would die on this sword if I had to.

I challenged him by asking him this question: “Who is it that decided such a limited definition of art?”

He went on to tell me that a lot of highly educated persons from Harvard, and the like, made this decision. I scoffed. I then told him what MY definition of art is.

Art is a creative expression of anything. A piece of music is an art. Macaroni and glue on construction paper is art. A painting, a poem, a limerick. It is all art. Anything that moves anyone, including the artist, can be classified as art.

What gives anyone the right to classify something that moves so many people? Who decided that these people from Harvard are the right people to make these kinds of decisions? I find it insulting. Art is the great equalizer. People from all over the world can communicate ideas in a melody, feelings in a color, and hopes and dreams in the curve of a building.

Spoken language is art. Dance is art. Anything creative, anything at all, is an expression of the human condition.

Now, I’ve been getting pretty worked up over this. As I said in my last blog, creative expression is sacred. It is the relationship between you and your soul.

Does it have to mean that to you? Of course not! As a matter of fact, I am not meant to understand why you, the artist, do the things you do. It drives me batshit crazy when other people try to understand artists.

I tried to explain this to my sister and dad last night and I was not effective in my reasoning. So let me see if I can clarify for myself and make it clear to you.

Art affects two people: the artist and whoever is exposed to it. I encourage exposure to art whenever possible. I encourage you to find something that moves you and contemplate what the art means TO YOU. I even would say that discussions about art are encouraged, but they should be about what the art means to each person. For example, you and your friend go to an art gallery. Or go to see a local musician. Or whatever. You see something, you turn to your friend and you say “This is how I feel when I look at this. These are the feelings that it evokes from me.” Your friend then says to you, “This is how I feel when I look at this. These are the feelings it evokes from me.” That is as far as the conversation goes, in my personal opinion.

It could be fun to say, “What do you think the artist was trying to say when s/he painted this?”, but we are not meant to understand what was going on in the artist’s mind when that painting/work of music/etc. was created. If the artist wants to share it with us, then we will know. Otherwise, focus less on the external and more on the internal. What does it mean to YOU?

Here’s a really good example. A lot of people hear or read poetry and they, as my teacher would describe, tie it to a chair and beat it with rubber hoses. They analyze and pick apart and speculate, and finally come up with a satisfactory answer. Let me give you a poem and I want to illustrate my point.

I slowly rise to my feet, shaken by
the act, and flush my hate away. Somehow
it is always shocking, and still the same.
I am nearing perfection. Once again,

I had purged of self-loathing, an extra
few pounds, the fat and disgusting girl—one
I constantly struggle against turning
into. I hold this secret against my

bosom, one that men will grow to adore.
I will see it before my days are through,
and I will be the finest catch. Somewhere
in the depths of my mind, I am dimly

aware that I am hurting myself. But
even the harsh bile burning in my
throat and nose does not keep me from doing
it again and again until I am

sure nothing remains but raw intestine
and a very pretty woman. Daddy
says that no one will ever love me, but
I am sure to find someone, if I try.

One day I will be beautiful, he’ll see.

Now, I think we can all agree that this poem appears to be about bulimia, which is the eating disorder of forcing yourself to vomit after you eat. I wrote this poem when I was seventeen years old. We had a “mind dump” exercise in my English class – to start writing and not stop for several minutes. I had one paragraph of a stream of consciousness. I later took this paragraph and made it into a poem. I labored over it, and at the end was proud. Reading it now, it lacks some of the finesse that some might consider “great” poetry, it is raw and obvious.

What if you were to analyze this? What if you were to guess who I am? Where I come from? What I’m about? You might think that I have an eating disorder, or had an eating disorder. You would be wrong. I have never had an eating disorder. My teacher was so concerned at the poem that I had to meet with him and a guidance counselor to make sure everything was okay. Everything was fine.

At 23, reading this six years later, I read something entirely different and I’M the one who wrote it. I interpret this now as the purging of things I hate about myself, and going about it in a most unhealthy way sometimes. Binge behavior and impulse control. Battling a negative self-image that has nothing to do with what I eat.

Thinking back to my 17-year-old self, I could guess that I was raging with teenage hormones and struggling with the relationship with my father, and felt all the angst that is typical of a girl on the verge of adulthood. It doesn’t really matter. It meant something to me then, and it means something to me now, but as far as YOU are concerned, the only thing that matters is if it meant something to do, and what it means to you and what it means to me are completely unrelated.

Are you a teenage girl with body image issues? Do you read this and feel like you are reading something about yourself? Did it make you cry, does it make you sad? Are you the brother or mother or father or friend of someone with an eating disorder? Does it move you? If it doesn’t, I am not offended. I do not subscribe to the belief that anything I write is all that interesting or talented. I don’t need you to think it is to be successful, I need it because I need it.

I think artists, as a general rule, are just trying to get it all out. I often say that when I write something, really write, a piece of my soul breaks off and goes into the writing. It never comes back. It is cathartic and wonderful. Like a drug. With so many thoughts and feelings about the world, I feel the need to express myself. If it means something to someone else, that’s an added bonus. But it’s not really about you, it’s about me. It’s self-indulgent.

If I were to try to write for you, I would churn out something I loathe. My little sister writes music, and she wrote a song once called Love. It is the most catchy adorable pop-hit song I’ve ever heard. We all sing it around the house from time to time. If it went on the radio she might make millions, but she won’t put it on the radio. She is protective of it, judges it, and doesn’t like to play it. There are so many works of writing that I refuse to publish, because they aren’t ready, or they made me feel good at a time but serve no value anymore. If my goal, or my sister’s goal, were to churn out things that pleased others, we would be sell outs. We would be shallow. It’s not about money, or fame, or trying to change the world through our creative expression. It is just simply finding that outlet for the creative energy. And if someone else happens to enjoy it, that’s great.

Every blog I write is stream of consciousness. I do not pay attention to word length, or the scroll bar to my right that is getting smaller and smaller as I drone on. If you don’t like it, TLDNR, okay. I don’t care. I don’t sit down and think “What would people like to read today?” I don’t edit (except for spell check) and I don’t write if I don’t want to.

I am always flattered when others compliment me on my ability to write, just as I am sure most musicians are flattered when they are complimented on their ability to create music. But just imagine… for every song that makes it on the radio and makes millions, how many others are half formed or just in the artist’s head? How many are reserved just for solitary plucking to get it all out? And who are we to try to understand the soul of these other human beings?

So, professor, I wholeheartedly disagree with you. Our class is about discovering what it means to be human through the humanities. To engage in lengthy discussions about the human condition and observe how the arts changed over time. We can draw conclusions about what it might mean based on history. We can discuss what the artist might have been thinking, even though I think it’s pointless. For more information on what Mona Lisa’s smile was all about, please talk directly to Mona Lisa. To quote my dad, maybe she let out a little fart and smiled and everyone in the room giggled. It doesn’t matter what her smile means to HER, it matters what you see and feel when you look at it.

So, with all due respect, let me interpret the arts how I see fit and I will allow you to do the same. But never tell me that my interpretation is wrong, or that the feelings that art give me are wrong, or what I see when I look at something. I am well aware of what emotions are and how to have them, so please let me.

Today I had another art modeling gig. I will consider my first gig the one at the college, even though I technically went for two (three?) classes. I consolidate these multiple visits into one gig because it was my first time doing it, it was at the same place with the same artists, and it was the same pose the entire time. If you haven’t read about my experience, you can read the pre-modeling blog here and the post-modeling blog here.

Anyway, one of the instructors at the college knows an artist that facilitates a private figure drawing class and gave him my information. His name is Bruce and you can see what he’s all about here. We exchanged a series of emails and had a telephone call regarding tonight’s modeling session (and next week’s as well) and I decided to go ahead and do it. I still believe what I said before – individuals should be creative, they should express, and whatever medium they choose is their personal business. Whether you paint, sing a song, dance, act, work with glass, clay – or write like me, you should be creative. Even if your creativity is organizing your shelves in a certain way, or selecting the right accessories for your car – find a way to express yourself. Also, whether or not you choose to share it with the world is also your business. It is as sacred as your relationship with God, because ultimately creativity is your relationship with your soul.

So, I went to the Vermont Institute of Contemporary Arts this evening. Well, technically, it was last night since its past midnight when I’m getting around to writing this. I had class until five and I got in my car and drove directly to VTICA. It is a beautiful gallery in a restored barn. The walls are bright and striking colors and big open space. There were about ten artists, I think, and they were all older than me, 35+ I would say. This was a more comfortable environment for me. The artists talked to me, they were friendly and warm, whereas at the college I was mostly ignored. The students weren’t being rude, of course, but it is important to remain professional and detached when someone is about to disrobe in front of you, I think. It was comforting at first, but also a little strange. This environment was more appealing to me, because I immediately felt safe and comfortable with these individuals. These are people who I categorize as “for real life grownups”, and they have done this before, whereas college students are still getting used to the idea of a naked stranger just sitting in front of them.

As for that, there was some anxiety on the drive there. Thankfully I rocked out to the Beatles LOVE album from the cirque show and chain smoked to calm my nerves. Also I remembered to eat a gas station chicken sandwich – because modeling is hard work! You’d think that its easy to just hold still, but it’s not. It’s such an interesting experience, and this time I had a completely different set of feelings about it.

My first modeling gig was one pose held for 20-30 minutes with a ten minute break in between. The class was three hours, so I’d sit in that pose four or five times and then go back the next week and repeat the same process. This time, however, I started with six two-minute action poses. These were really fun because it’s only two minutes. It’s a warm up for the artists and ended up being a warm up for me. Okay, Kyrston, get ready to hold still. Remember what it feels like to be still, because the last pose you’re doing tonight is forty-five minutes and you need to calm your mind and go into the zone.

I did a pose with arms extended, like I was dancing. A pose where my feet were together and I was bent at a ninety degree angle with my arms stretched out in front of me (that one was hard, even for two minutes. A pose where I was crouched, a pose where my back faced the artists and I had one hand on my hip and the other hand stretching over my head on the same side (like stretching). A number of different poses that were expressive but too difficult to hold much longer than a few minutes.

Then we did a ten minute pose, for this one it kind of looked like the position a runner on the track would take before the gun fires. That was hard on my wrists, arms, and shoulders. Basically the longest push up ever.

The artists and Bruce communicated very well what they were looking for and had books and suggestions, which was helpful. I have to say that when you’re standing nude in front of a panel of strangers and you have a spotlight on you, it’s hard to be innovative. Since I constantly trip, or drop things, and basically move without much grace, trying to move without even clothing to protect me from my own awkwardness really takes some courage. But we laughed and they were kind and I got the hang of it.

The second to last pose was 25 minutes and it was me sitting with my legs off to the side, similar to the pose I held at the college. Except this time instead of my weight being on my hands, I was leaning my side against something and my arms were folded on it. That was extremely comfortable. I had way more padding in the form of blankets and pillows under the sheet, rather than a piece of foam on the plywood. I almost fell asleep sitting there because literally no part of my body was uncomfortable. Once in a while I’d notice that I was leaning my rib cage against the corner of what I was leaning on, but it wasn’t a big deal.

And finally the big one, the forty-five minute pose. We all agreed that I should be laying down to minimize discomfort/the need to move around or make adjustments. So, I laid on my back, put my legs up on the platform to my left and crossed them, twisted my torso so it was front-facing, rested my left hand on the platform and put my right hand under my head.

So. Comfortable. I almost fell asleep. I just closed my eyes and listened to the really good music they were playing, and listened to the sound of different artistic tools. A brush being dipped in water, a piece of charcoal on paper. A pen scratching away. And a sharpener sharpening something once in a while. I could have held that position all night long. I actually had to concentrate to not relax too much because I didn’t think it would be professional to fall asleep and have one of my legs fall down or something.

All in all an extremely positive experience. I was more comfortable in the nude, as well. Whereas at the college I disrobed at the last second and immediately pulled it back on and left the room for breaks, this time I just stood there between poses and discussed ideas with the artists. I was in more revealing poses as well. Never anything vulgar or in poor taste, of course. This isn’t pornography, it’s art.  I was just more expressive, no longer concerned with what my body might look like from different angles. It is an incredibly uplifting experience.

Just imagine – the opportunity to challenge every self-conscious part of your mind. The opportunity to feel completely at ease in your own skin. And for those of you that know me personally, the fact that I am slender and petite has nothing to do with it. Believe me, prior to attending these sorts of things I do all kind of preparation. I groom, exfoliate to the point of rawness, moisturize to the extreme. Take careful pains to be clean and odorless. I can do nothing about bruises on my body from walking into things, or stretch marks in places where I grew too quickly as an adolescent (even more obvious with pale winter skin). I can do nothing about my breasts changing when it’s cold in the room (and let me just tell you that I am sitting there wondering what they look like and I can’t see them, and it drives me nuts). Or the way my tummy looks if I’m bent over and relaxed. I don’t know what my facial expression is even though I can feel my face, because I’m too busy concentrating on not scratching that itch or not moving my hand naturally or not shaking too much from the strain of holding still.

If anyone ever gets the opportunity, I highly suggest you try it at least once. Or, for starters, start walking around your apartment without any clothing on. I do it at home all the time, when no one is here of course (like my dad). Make love with the lights on, look at yourself in the mirror and see how beautiful you are. See what the artists see. The lines and the shapes, the curves and the interest. It is so satisfying.

The last two poses, in particular, I felt a little bit spoiled. It’s hard to feel graceful and beautiful when you’re holding a particularly difficult pose, like bending over. All the blood is rushing to your head and you feel like a big doofus, but all the artists care about is the female figure (or male, in the case of a male model) doing something expressive and interesting. But to sit in a comfortable position and feel royal? To lie down and feel like Rose from the Titanic? (without all the sexual tension, of course) It’s incredible. Absolutely incredible. I felt… less like I was getting paid to do a job and more like I was a spectacle that all had come to see. It filled me with this powerful sense of confidence. That I could just relax and be in my own skin, that I could just strip away all the bullshit and just be Kyrston. And with all the quiet, I was able to really think.

I thought about my marriage, how my post-marriage relationship ended and why, the human condition, how I feel about the world, how I feel about my family, how I feel about my job, how I feel about my body, and how I feel about where I have been, where I am, and where I’m going. I have felt that good before, usually after a massage. Just how a massage removes toxins from your body and corrects your muscles, this experience removes toxins from my mind. I will sleep better tonight after this experience, I will feel better in my body after this experience (again) and I really hope I get the chance to do it on a regular basis in many different ways.

Check out the links above, especially for Bruce. There should be contact information if this interests you, and you can always contact me directly if you have any more questions that I didn’t answer here or in the previous blogs.

*Edit* Last Wednesday I sat down to write this and am just now finishing it, Sunday afternoon.

I just got home from class, The Humanities in Western Culture. Today is the second class I have attended and MAN was it packed with amazing dialogue. Last week we were assigned to read Oedipus Rex and two chapters in our textbook, which encompassed ancient Greek culture. Time period around 500 B.C. I read about the Persian Wars, the battle that the movie 300 is based on, the golden age of Athens culture, and the way that theater, philosophy, mathematics, and science were pursued in that time period. Fascinating stuff.

Our class is mostly seminar, which means we have about an hour of lecture and spend the other two hours talking to one another and our teacher about the things we are learning. Not only that, but whereas previously I have been the only one talking and expressing my opinion, I find in this class that I am actually competing for time to speak! Almost every single student speaks up and wants to be heard. Some are younger than me, some are older, and I can tell that we all come from different backgrounds. It’s absolutely amazing to be a part of a discussion with others that want to discuss as well.

One of our assignments was to read Pericles’ Funeral Oration. Pericles was the ruler of Athens at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War. We were assigned to read his speech and then think about the way Pericles viewed Athens and the way we view our own country.

The first time I read it, I thought Pericles was basically an arrogant prick. He had so much pride and spoke so highly of Athens and I didn’t really notice any humility in his address. When I read it the second time, some days later, it gave me a different feeling. I felt that he was speaking directly to me, someone who lived in Athens, and I got excited. If I can imagine being spoken to that way by my leader, I am basically thinking of every time our President addresses this country. This sparked an interesting conversation.

We talked about Nationalist, which is the love of country  and Imperialism, which is extending the power of one’s country into other nations. For the sake of the discussion, we decided that an Imperialist mentality was as a result of hubris.

Our teacher asked us: “Should a person always love his or her country?”

First of all, side rant on the word should. I hate the word. Should is a terrible word. In our language, and society, should has attached to it a very specific meaning. A sense of obligation, judgement, and expectation. Then again, all things being what they are, one could easily argue that the word “is” has an equally elitist attachment to it. Actually, it’s almost worse.

Anyway. So our teacher asks us Should a person always love his or her country? And I bristle on the inside. Should. Should… according to whom? To you? To my neighbor? Who’s asking? Why are you even asking me that? Of course, my teacher was only trying to propel the dialogue, so I understood where he was going. He was basically asking us if there is ever an occasion when loving one’s country is not appropriate. To illustrate his point more clearly, he gave the example of North Korea.

Now, I think we can all agree that in terms of reputation, North Korea is one of the most oppressive and worst countries you could live in. So if you are living in North Korea, born and raised, knowing full well the state of things, are you a patriot? Or do you flee at the first chance you get?

I found this to be rather offensive, and a little too easy, since of course we could all agree that North Korea sounds like a nightmare. Whether or not its inhabitants are patriots, we agreed, is of course a matter of relativity. All persons benefiting from the way that the country does business might be patriots, and it is unlikely that the rest of them are.

So, because I am saucy, I posed this question to my teacher and the class.

“You asked us if a person should always love his country, and you cited North Korea. All of us can agree that it is a terrible place to live and our first reaction is that it is hard to believe one can love his country if the country is like that. But, let me ask you this. Should we love America?”

This brought us to another conversation, now about Imperialism, and the pride of a country and how it tries to extend its power into another. We agreed that America is, and I cannot remember the exact phrasing of my teacher’s question… it was either Should we be imperialistic or Do you think it’s right that we are?

Either way, my answer was a firm no. Like any golden moment, someone else at the exact same moment said Yes.

My teacher looked at me and, with a smile, challenged me to defend my position.

What happened next can only be characterized as a rant, although I tried very hard to speak calmly, quietly, and slowly. Those that know me personally will tell you that I don’t really understand the concept of an inside voice, and a regular speaking volume feels like whispering to me. That’s just regular conversation. In a heated debate, I tend to get louder and talk faster as I get worked up, which might explain why people are always looking at me with that funny expression and walking backwards with both palms facing towards me. Maybe they think I’ll go postal.

Anyway, as I (calmly, quietly, and slowly) explained my position, I could feel the blush spread from my chest up my neck and envelop my face. Part of this was just nervousness at speaking in front of strangers, part of it was also containing my bubbling excitement, but none of it was for fear of rejection or because I did not believe in what I was saying.

You see, I find the quality of our great nation to be severely lacking. We have poverty in our streets, children lacking quality education, the cost of living increasing and the wages remaining the same, the acceptance of unacceptable behavior going up while manners decrease, and corruption in about every corner you can find. And yet, we think we are so mighty. We think we are so fabulous that we should march into another nation and police its people. That we might somehow aid them in their poverty, their corruption, and their third-world ways of living.

Open your eyes, people. Take a hard look around you. Are we not living in a third world state in some ways? Sure, we have high-speed internet and airplanes and fast cars and pornography. We have freedom of speech (sort of, once you get through the red tape) and freedom to live as we choose (if we can find a way around more red tape), but are we really better off?

Now, don’t misinterpret what I’m saying. I’m not an anarchist and I love my country. But, I am not blinded to its faults. I can only imagine what things might look like if ten years ago we had started funneling all our resources into our own borders. It feels like someone stopped paying close enough attention and it’s all gone to shit. Even in my small New England town there are people starving and freezing to death sleeping outside while we have a superintendent that makes 122,000 a year. How do I know this? Because his salary is public record. And what about the other one? 124,000 a year. And the assistant superintendent? 97,000 a year. The business administrator’s is 105,000!

Perhaps some people will say that this salary is a direct result of a lifetime’s hard work. And, yes, I have to agree with you. But I want to live in a world where we don’t abandon our civic duty to drive a BMW or have a summer-house in the Hamptons. I want to live in a world where instead of funneling money into a war, we funnel that money into our own social security system, our own hospitals, and our own schools.

I want to say, with pride, that my nation ranks top in the world in the following areas: least amount of poverty, most amount of citizens with post-secondary education, least amount of crime, least amount of debt, highest scores in education, least amount of citizens on long-term welfare, highest citizen satisfaction, and least amount of arrogance.

I don’t care that we think we have the best military, because we don’t. Aren’t people always saying that if China ever decides to wipe us out we are thoroughly fucked? And what good are the graduates of Harvard or MIT if children that want to learn aren’t allowed to tools to do so because our budget is being funneled into the war? Is it so special that we have pop stars and great music if the music and art programs are being cut around the country? And how impressive does your Escalade look if just down the road your neighbor has fallen on hard times and you turn a blind eye in your own selfishness?

We, collectively, have lost the art of extending the helping hand. We are supposed to live in a free society and what do we do with our freedom? We watch YouTube videos and stalk our ex-boyfriend on Facebook. I use “we” because I am just as guilty. We have also lost the art of humility. You strutting around bragging about how amazing your country is and then collecting your welfare to buy cigarettes and cheap a beer does not make you a patriot, it makes you the broken cog in the machine that is this nation.

Slandering our fellow Americans while they exercise their freedom of expression and then bragging about how you love being an American? Being an American is about being accepting and allowing each person to find their own way. Being a human being dictates that you treat others with kindness and respect. If you find yourself lacking in either of these qualities, please move to a fascist society and join them in their oppression of others.

Now I am getting all kinds of worked up thinking about all the ways that humanity, and this country, can be saved. Sometimes when I think about it I can feel a little helpless. But here is what I do on a daily basis to try to make a difference, any difference, no matter how minimal.

I am kind to others and do not condone cruelty in my presence. I admonish other people who behave in a manner that is inhumane. I buy breakfast for the person behind me in the McDonald’s drive through. I give to charity, or donate my belongings, or assist in a cause I believe in.

I speak up when I don’t believe something is right, and I pay attention. I understand how I am caught up in this mess and even if I have to do things I do not like, I don’t simply accept them and then FORGET about them. Even now, as I feel my rights being slowly drained from me as if someone had nicked a vain, I am aware.

I urge you all to do the same. We can love our nation and improve it one day at a time, as a collective unit, by being better people and inspiring others to do the same. Instead of stalking your ex’s new fling on Facebook, get your ass down to the community kitchen and ladle some soup. Go through your things and donate what’s too small to the homeless shelter. Participate in a forum about expression, write your senator, attend school board and city council meetings, and act like you belong and that you are accountable, that your existence means something, that you have a duty to yourself and those around you to affect change.

Being the best country in the world starts with being the best people in the world.

Today when I got home from work I read the entries from my personal journal I started keeping after my husband and I separated. AKA – the really crazy shit that I wouldn’t post on the internet. Recently I thought it might be a good idea to blog all of those entries, so that other people going through what I am going through might find comfort in knowing that these thoughts are shared by other human beings. Reading through it I decided against it, because really all that would do would further smear the name of the guy that screwed me over. So, instead, I want to highlight a few things that I wrote and share my thoughts. And then, because I am me, I will probably switch topics and end up somewhere completely different. At the end I will title the blog entry. Grab your towels and get ready for the ride.

First I started by writing a quote on the very first page. You know, the blank  page that separates the journal from the cover. It goes “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been.” That quote, if you care to know, is from John Greenleaf Whittier and I have absolutely no idea where I saw it. Somewhere on the internet, I am sure.

I distinctively remember the heaviness of that quote when I saw it, and how much I could relate. Cue tiny violins and scene of me crying in a corner all emo-style. Such a breakup quote. And now, reading it, I feel no emotional connection to that whatsoever. Well, I guess my reaction could be characterized as indifferent. I no longer associate my marriage with the sad thoughts of what might have been. Actually, I am kind of grateful for it. So many life lessons learned and I appear to be doing pretty well, so I got all these perks and none of the crap that was guaranteed to go along with it. You divorced people out there should be able to relate. Really dodged a bullet on that one.

So, anyway, next page. August 5th 2012. 43 days after I kicked his ass out. I write about how I kept track of the days, because it isn’t a battle fought over weeks or months, but by the daily struggle. Well, that’s the damn truth. At least in the beginning. Wake up, find the resolve to get out of bed, spend the entire day hating your life, crawl into bed at the end of the day, try to sleep. Later, start partaking in illegal drugs to help you sleep. Four hours every night for weeks just doesn’t work – hence the drug use. Also, you probably shouldn’t do that. It’s bad for your lungs.

Anyway, so yeah. Daily struggle, but also not a battle. That puts an entirely unhealthy spin on it. Sure, you feel like it’s a battle in the beginning. A battle against the self, a battle against the partner, etc. But really, it should be viewed as a foray into the unknown, and the  feelings are all over the place because feelings are feelings, but really it’s just a new chapter. And, I will tell you, if you are going through it now or recently, feel that it is a battle in the moment. It will help your resolve. But don’t forget to be on your own side.

So then I go on to talk about all the things I did. Throw away my wedding cake in the freezer, move furniture, pack up his stuff. In retrospect, I kind of wish I had just thrown it all on the lawn. Because what feels better than being vindictive? Nothing. Nothing feels better than that. And if the person REALLY deserves it, rake them over the coals. I didn’t want to be that kind of woman, I wanted to handle it with class. What I’ve realized is that he didn’t deserve an ounce of consideration or class from me. Kind of wish I had been able to make him suffer just a little bit. (Okay, maybe this shit is a little too crazy to post on the internet. But trust me, it’s all completely normal.)

Then I talk about my feelings, blah blah blah. Blame it on him, good show. And a whole lot of sadness.

Next day, write about feeling overwhelmed. And not trusting the thoughts in my head. Ah, here we see it. The first documentation of self-doubt. That Kyrston was a puss. Talking about not feeling myself, playing a role and not knowing who I am without this person to define me, some song lyrics from Thank You by Estelle, my divorce soundtrack if you may. Psh. Losing something so precious. Love we shared was real. That we belonged together (no we didn’t). Then talking about the guy I am currently dating. He has been a friend of mine for years and was a crucial part to my healing. He talked me to sleep every night the weeks after it happened, because I was too afraid to fall asleep, and he made me laugh and smile. Reflecting on my thoughts about our friendship. I will have to remember to share these things with him the next time I see him. So, if you’re reading this, call me. =)

And then the really juicy stuff comes in. The thing that makes me so disgusted that I wish I could go back in time to Kyrston circa August 2012 and punch her in the throat for being so incredibly stupid. “Is it really that he is a bad guy or is it that its my fault?”

Um. Ahem. Can we just pause for a quick second and observe the idiocy in that statement. If you’ve been following along with my life story, you are probably smacking your hand against your head right now. It’s like the most cliché thing you ever hear. Man screws woman over, woman feels hurt, woman immediately tries to excuse the man’s behavior or engineer it so that it’s HER fault. Sigh. Idiot.

Now, I’m all for self-reflection. Honestly, I am. Be careful not to get too big in those britches and consider the possibility that you may be wrong. But, some things are universally game enders and nothing you can say justifies is. Sort of like… claiming that a woman who dresses like a slut is asking for it when she gets raped. Perhaps if I hadn’t walked away from him when he was angry, he wouldn’t have dragged me back in the room and screamed in my face. Or, perhaps if I hadn’t been so argumentative, he wouldn’t have threatened to put my ass on the floor if I didn’t stop saying what I was saying.

Unfortunately, my journal does not exactly read as self-reflection, it reads as complete insanity. I am literally wracking my brain for an explanation as to why this person did this and trying to come up with my half of the responsibility (which we all know is the gateway thinking for taking complete responsibility) when the reality is that you NEVER and I mean NEVER put your hands on someone else that way. You NEVER scream at them to scare them, make verbal threats, or call them a cunt or a bitch or a slut or any of the things that people say to hurt other people. You NEVER behave aggressively when you are six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle. That boy could break my neck with one hand. You never treat another human being that way, ESPECIALLY not one that is just over five feet and one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. With rocks in her pockets.

So, I just slapped my hand against my head re-reading this particular part of my journal. Are you serious.

Anyway, moving on. Talking about my feelings of moving, then I move into more positive territory. A goal to pick three things I love about myself so much that no one could shake my resolve. A physical thing – I have a cute butt. Boys go crazy over my tush. An emotional thing – I take care of people. I even admit in the journal that I need to find balance in that, but the point is that I am kind and gentle and warm and loving. And a tangible thing – I have a superb work ethic. So, I wrote that I should start there and then use that as the foundation for moving forward finding new things to truly love about myself. Good thinking, Kyrston. You kind of made up for the abused woman mentality.

Next day, I write about how I felt about my ex-husbands grandfather dying. Mostly about guilt that I can’t take care of his needs when I had just lost someone a few weeks prior and I know that kind of pain intimately. That leads into a full-fledged ADMISSION that I am responsible for the decline of our marriage. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. Guys, I am not making this shit up. Remember how I JUST said that trying to split the blame is the gateway to accepting full responsibility? Well there it is, 24 hours later. Jesus.

Then I go into trying to figure out how much abuse I deserved because of what I did to cause the decline in my relationship. At this point I kind of feel nauseous that I even was that woman. I mean, it makes sense and all, to a crazy person. This is nuts! I literally wrote “I want to blame it all on him, but I can’t. I’m not a princess, and he didn’t go from being the knight to the dragon. I was undeserving of trust, and instead of re-building that the relationship disintegrated. His treatment of me got worse and worse. But in a relationship trust is breached… people make mistakes. The question is how much did I deserve? Not as much as I received. [Oh, thank god. Some brilliance  Kyrston.] When should I have demanded better treatment?”

Oh for the love of god. How about, if you’re in a relationship (even a marriage) and someone hurts you that badly that you want to hurt them, you leave them. Hey, you, ex-husband from right around a year ago. You should have left me if I hurt you that badly, you coward.

Then I go on to talk about what should have happened, and all of that is about positive energy and stuff instead of negative energy. Good, good, so I guess you saved yourself from looking like the dumb broad that thinks it’s somehow her fault and she deserved it.

Talking about the level of commitment, trying to have a baby, how I haven’t told my parents that yet, and being nervous about going home. Well, that’s some pretty heavy shit, trying to have a baby. I went to a store once and had to hurry through the kids section because it bothers me. When you’re in the mentality that you will have your own baby soon and that you are dreaming up nursery ideas and names and all that, it’s hard to look at that stuff when that dream dies.

Two days later, journal entry about aforementioned friend (and now boyfriend) about the positive things happening in my mind during our lengthy phone conversations. Then I go on to talk about the positive influence my ex had on me. What he taught me, how he made me a better person. Then talking about being his improved Kyrston even if he’s not there. I remember that being an incredibly uplifting realization, that I could be awesome even if he wasn’t there, but the truth is – I was awesome before he came into my life. And I am awesome after it. The period where I was with him did change me, but unfortunately in more bad ways than good. Only time and perspective has shown me that. I had no idea it was happening at the time. Scary, right?

Then I talk about that it’s okay to screw up and the sky doesn’t have to fall on my head just because I am human. Be more accepting of my flaws and forgiving of my poor choices. Dont be so self-destructive. All positive thoughts. Bravo. Talking about positive ways to analyze things, rather than letting my brain run rampant. Then end with a car reference – “After all, when a car isn’t running perfectly, you don’t buy a new one. You do a tune up.” Wise words. Not mine.

A few days later, a short (one page) entry with extremely sloppy handwriting. The day that I found out that my ex slept with someone. So angsty.

A few days later, in much calmer penmanship, more thoughts on the previous entry’s content. Mentioning how when I saw his name on my phone I just thought “Oh for the love of GOD what NOW?”. Anger. Lots of anger. Using the word hate a lot. Anger is a big part of divorce. Like huge. You’d think you would feel betrayed, and you do. What does that manifest itself as? Anger. Sadness? Manifests as anger. So do all the other feelings. It all turns into anger. My divorce self-help book talks about how it’s pretty common to want to run over your spouse with a car and then back over them. With a cheery smile. It’s true, folks. Basically we turn into the incredible hulk. And it’s normal.

Journal entry August 18 2012. The day before I leave to go to NH. Emotions raw, a new journey on the horizon, so relieved to see my dad. Afraid I will fall apart because I have been go-go-go the whole time. Realizing I will never sleep in my bed again, or drive on the same roads, see my friends and family, follow my normal routine. I am going home to NH and everything is about to change. Feeling full of sharp shards and they poke me every time I move.

And then the rest of the entries are after I moved here. And really there’s only a handful. After awhile I stopped writing in my journal and very shortly after that I started blogging again. And if you move backwards in time to those blog posts you’re pretty much caught up. As if your very existence hinges on knowing what goes on inside my mind. Ha.

It felt good to reflect on how I felt many months ago. My therapist tells me I have pretty much graduated from therapy. Okay, those are my words. She didn’t say graduated. She just told me I’m just about done. We switched the monthly visits two months ago as it turns out I can cope without crying for an hour once a week in that setting. I cry when I need to cry. Some days I feel bad, some days I feel good. The people who know me best say I am behaving in ways that I never had before. No more tailspins, no more self-sabotage. No more caving and being weak. No more drama, no more uncertainty, and very little pain. Well, the pain comes and goes in the most weird ways, but I am handling it beautifully. Actually, I have handled everything beautifully since I got here, with very few hiccups.

And, I guess I just wanted to write all of that down, because I think it’s unfair for people to have to go through this without a feeling of belonging. The most helpful things I heard during this process were stories that other people told me. Anything at all to validate every single feeling. And when I first got here in mid August and my dad promised me it would take time but eventually I would feel like it was just a thing that happened and not the most relevant thing – I just cried. It felt impossible. I felt so shattered and so dirty, like being divorced had ruined me. I was very close to swearing off all intimacy for good, and it was the tiniest shred of self-respect that kept me from going there. That, and a whole lotta love from a whole lotta people. Shout out to you folks – you know who you are. Thank you for helping me save myself, for being my support system, for being patient and kind, for believing in me. But most importantly, doing these things so consistently and unwaveringly that I had no choice but to learn to believe in myself.

Roughly six months ago my husband and I separated, and roughly two months ago my divorce finalized. I have spent many moments in tears, anguish, anger, loss, grief, desperation, confusion, longing, loneliness, and bitterness. These moments, when they occur, are exhausting and they never seem to end. A moment of agony can stretch to infinity and feel like an entire lifetime of sadness, whereas a moment of joy, however powerful, seems fleeting in the retrospect. The collection of these moments we call experience and our human existence, and when we look back we tally the moments of joy and moments of despair and have a general sense of what our life has been life.

When we have a bad day, at the end of the day we look back and think “what a terrible day”. When we have a week with four bad days out of  seven (or perhaps just one REALLY bad day) we look back and think “what a terrible week”. However, anything longer than a seven day cycle makes us consider the moments of joy more than the moments of despair. I think it is the short-circuit that protects our brains from entering complete meltdown mode. I honestly could not tell you if the past month has been mostly good or mostly bad, but I have a sense of how I feel about it.

To extend that out even further, I look back at the past six months. There were days when at the end of the day I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Not literally, of course, but I was so exhausted and emotionally spent and afraid that the moments of joy were overpowered by the dark space in my soul.

There were weeks when I felt degraded and demoralized on the inside, where I felt that this process was never going to end. I remember having a conversation with my father and he said to me: “One day, sooner than you think, you will look back at this and it will just be something that happened to you.” I am pretty sure I laughed. A cold, bitter laugh. I believed him of course, but time seemed to stretch out to infinity and the happiness seemed too far out of reach to grasp.

And what is happiness really? Fleeting moments of joy that any moment could be viciously ripped from our grasp? The carrot on the stick? Life is the treadmill and we are stupidly chasing after that carrot never getting any closer to it. And life soothes us and cajoles us… just a little bit farther. You’ve almost got it.

This is the mindset of a terribly sad human being, one without hope and faith in the greater good and the big picture. More importantly, it is the mindset of a human being that has lost hope and faith in ourselves, for I believe that no matter which faith we subscribe to, each one of us knows in our heart that we are chiefly responsible for our own happiness.

So what happened to me that instead of feeling dejected and hopeless I started feeling… calm and sure? I have no idea. It was a cumulative effect, I think. A combination of a wonderful man, a supportive family, a rewarding job, and just time.

A few weeks ago there was a tragic shooting in Connecticut. I remember being on my way to work and hearing a small snippet of something on the radio. For all I know it was put out there in black and white but my brain just refused to process that information. Little by little it was talked about at work but I didn’t have the space in my head, while working, to process what was happening. By the time I left work I had the story. When I got home, my parents and I watched West Wing and every moment where we were supposed to laugh at the show, I felt a deep sense of betrayal at my own urge to laugh. A coldness inside of me, a sickness, and anger. I tried to talk about it with my parents, but all I could get out was “I heard about the shooting. I am upset.” and then we moved on at my insistence.

That evening I tossed and turned in bed for close to an hour knowing I would not get any sleep. Something has been nagging at my subconscious. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had been thinking this thought for hours but they were only words in my brain. The emotional surge hadn’t quite hit me yet. I kept thinking about Joseph, my ex-husband’s younger brother. He’s almost seven. When I met Kyle he was two. I watched him grow, learn to speak, develop a personality all his own, attended tee ball games, attended events at church, played with him, read him books, gave him baths, and even though I tried my hardest – he always beat me at mario kart. Every time.

So this thought in my brain kept repeating: “Joseph. Joseph just started school. Some of those children today were Joseph’s age.” And whether as a product of my vivid imagination or just severe emotional rawness, I kept picturing the scene. Children laughing and singing about the letters of the alphabet. Children learning to write. Children learning to read. Children being children, the light of humanity, until someone with a rifle walked in and shot them. And it was so profoundly disturbing that I couldn’t sleep, and all I could think about was Joseph. And then, laying in bed at midnight on a Friday, I thought of Kyle.

All it took was nineteen seconds of complete madness to pick of the phone and call him. I didn’t even hesitate, there wasn’t a reason to, I just had to make sure that he was okay. That Joseph was okay. That the disturbing event of that day hadn’t sent Kyle into a tailspin. And it wasn’t until he answered the phone that I felt completely and utterly foolish. I muttered that it was me, and the background noise made it clear he was at a party, but something in my voice alerted him that something was seriously wrong, and he left to party to talk to me.

It took me a while to get it out, and he coaxed it out of me, talking to me only the way Kyle can. And I burst into tears and started babbling about children learning how to read.

He calmed me down in his Kyle way, talking about things you can control and things you can’t control and God which I found, still, to be maddening. But at least he was true to form. And then we talked for four hours, at which point I had to get off the phone to try to get some sleep before my double.

It was the first time I had heard his voice since I moved back home and the first time we had talked without the anger that goes along with one person leaving another. It was interesting and informative. I had forgotten what his voice sounded like, almost. More, I had forgotten what it was like to listen to him talk. I live in New England now, and the people here are considerably different from the midwest, and when I moved back to Ohio at 18, I was definitely a New Englander. I had forgotten how abrasive he is, how raw, and how if he has a filter, it’s dusty from misuse. When I first met him I found these qualities charming and refreshing, and in a way I still do. But the shiny has worn off in a big way, and although I can appreciate these qualities in him, I don’t find that we have so much in common even having a light dialogue.

I had also forgotten about how we argue, although there was something deeply comforting about arguing the same way we always did. It doesn’t really matter what we were arguing about, but he played the role of Kyle and I played the role of Kyrston and it struck something deep in my soul. Some things never change. I think that’s why people stay together. They feel safe with what they know. And no matter how ludicrous a situation may appear to an outsider, the ones within are cozy in their misery.

We talked about how we felt about separating, and how we felt about our relationship. Our perspectives are so different they are almost opposite and some things he said I find to be false and I am sure he feels the same way about some things that I said.

We talked for hours and hours without even realizing how much time had passed. We got emotional, we got angry, we got sassy and we had some laughs. With some time apart we were able to talk to one another without the residual anger getting in the way of being productive. I had forgotten how easy it is to talk to him, how natural it feels, and how I can say just about anything without reservation.

After our conversation, I spent a week feeling entirely different from how I had felt thus far. I spent the week feeling angry at the universe for allowing me to fall in love with someone so radically different that it would never work out in the end, and I also spent the week feeling so sad that something so seemingly wonderful could go up in flames. I know that we have different opinions, I know that he thinks that if we tried we could make it work somehow. I feel the opposite, that you might be able to fit a square block into a circle hole but the square and the block are going to be miserable during the process and no matter what you do it will never be quite right. And there’s quite a difference between a little bit of wiggle room in the fit and large gaping holes. We feel these holes on the inside and we should probably try to avoid, whenever possible, getting married with all the holes.

Perhaps if one or both of us were a more complete and healthy individual it would have been okay, but we cannot play that what if game. That way leads to madness. So, we just have to suck it up and move on down the road, with a little bit of faith in ourselves and the greater good and bigger picture.

I suppose there are days when I feel like the Kyrston I’ve always been is dying. She is fading away and putting up a big stink about it. New Kyrston is moving in and I feel very lost in this transitional period of my life. I am not really sure about anything. I don’t know where I really stand on the issues and day-to-day I am very inconsistent.

Another thing that happened is I had a series of friction incidents with my boyfriend. And yes, it feels very weird typing that word. It feels incredibly odd to be referring to him as my boyfriend after writing this big long piece about my ex husband. But what else do you call a friend you’ve had for almost a decade with whom you share a mutual attraction and chemistry that you started seeing and developed an intimate relationship with? I think boyfriend is a much shorter term that encompasses all of that.

Despite my warnings about my intense screwed upness and warnings about crazy emotional drama and severe baggage, he was all for it. He listens to me and is sweet and caring and wonderful. He is intelligent and kind and patient. He spoils me and then considers my definition of “spoiled” to be completely absurd. He is just… awesome. He’s also stubborn and strong-willed and argumentative, but he’s still a fantastic human being and has been for the eight years I’ve known him. And so when we started seeing one another, we had a lot of conversations about Kyle. As a matter of fact, I believe he has been a critical part to my healing. There have been so many incidents wherein I have learned something new about myself just by having him around. I have had to confront many unhealthy aspects of my personality not only because he makes me feel safe to talk about such things, but because he calls me out when my behavior is ridiculous. And for a while, everything was perfectly fine. Except.

Except that I wanted to have one foot in and one foot out. This person, whom I claim to respect and care for, was held at arm’s length. I was trying to protect myself from getting too emotionally involved with someone who, really, I became emotionally involved with eight years ago. I was treating him with a level of aloofness that he didn’t really deserve. After all, it’s not like he’s just some guy I met at a bar that I can yank around. He’s a person I’ve known a long time and who has never, not once, let me down. And I thought that if I just made it clear over and over what the deal was, that would make a difference. And instead, I treated him with minimal amounts of respect and through my actions made him feel very small. And then I started to feel guilty, because I knew that he was getting absolutely no return on his investment. And then, I got in it my head that our relationship was bad for me, because the last thing I need right now is to feel guilty that I’m letting someone else down.

And then, we had a series of “fights”, which were really just incidents of friction, and finally I had had enough. I was feeling so miserable about the whole thing that I just said I couldn’t do it anymore. And since all of this unfolded on Christmas Eve, of all days, and my sister was here and that was the priority, we had a series of follow-up conversations.

And for the first time, he said all of the things he had said before, and I said all of the things I had already said, and he continued to say the same things, and I continued to say mine. But something changed in my head.

I wondered to myself, Kyrston – why do you feel so goddamn awful right now? He’s just a guy, and you promised yourself that you wouldn’t do the thing where you get all emotionally attached and then feel like a slave to your attachment. Why is it you feel so terrible? Is it really about him, or do you just not want to be alone? What is it exactly that is wrong with you?

And although all of that sounds kind of negative like I was beating myself up, but really it was more of an incredulous feeling. All this person wants is to love me. He just wants to be nice to me, and listen to me, and talk to me, and treat me well, and to love me. To feel like more than something disposable, to just be respected and treated like he has value, which he has demonstrated umpteen times. He’s not asking me to marry him, or move in with him, or make any kind of long-term commitment or promise. He and I work opposite shifts, he doesn’t demand a lot of time, he just wants to feel like more than a shadow in my life when all he’s done is been an incredible source of light and joy. Even when he gets upset, no matter how hard I try, I can’t deny that he is being perfectly reasonable and by requesting a bit of human respect. So what the HELL is the matter with me? What the hell is wrong with me that I just can’t let someone love me, even though I feel all screwed up inside and feel like someone else’s toy they got tired of playing with and tossed aside? Why can’t I see in myself what everyone else sees and just feel good about that?

And upon considering these questions, the most basic one being: Why am I refusing love and positive feelings? I just laughed. I laughed at myself for being so incredibly moronic. It is the most ridiculous and absurd thing I have ever heard of. And that question has been asked of me by many a person in my life. My parents have expressed mass amounts of concern at my inability to accept positive feelings about myself. That I don’t think I deserve the world on a silver platter. That happiness is something I have the right the search for, and that the constant reinforcing of negative emotions about myself is dangerous and unhealthy.

And so something just clicked in my head. And now I don’t mind so much. And just in case I doubt myself, or think that I am making an astronomically huge mistake by even allowing myself to open up the tiniest bit to another human being, I think about how awful it can feel to be alone, and how awful it can be to be with someone. I think about how there are moments of joy in shared human experience, and the safety and sense of rightness that goes along with having people in your corner.

I remember that looking back on my life I see a lot of negative things that happened to me, that I was the victim of, or that made me feel bad. I haven’t had a bad life, as a matter of fact I think I got a pretty good deal. So why is it that when asked by my parents about the childhood memories I have, there are a laundry list of times I got in trouble, or times that someone treated me poorly, or times I felt bad about myself?

If you were to ask me about life, I would tell you that it is a whole lot of pain but none of it is unnecessary and that all of it shapes who you are. That there are character building exercises and that since most of it is out of our control, we shouldn’t worry so much and we should seek out joy. That instead of looking at the end of the day or the end of the week and seeing the stack up of negative moments, find the three moments in one week where you felt absolute joy and feel how much more positive that feels.

Furthermore, looking back, an entire week of negative moments does not guarantee another week of equally negative moments. There are moments in life where yes, we are truly miserable. And then there is just one moment, when your heart swells and your soul sings and the faith in humanity is restored. It’s exhausting to be a part of, especially if you are like me and your emotions are so all over the place. And I think that I have been spending so much time, years in fact, keeping tabs on myself, allowing myself little room for personal growth, and being a slave to my fear. When I said it out loud, that I am afraid, it seemed silly. Not silly to be that way, I did get burned after all, but wasn’t it me that said that human beings cannot exist without human connection? That people need each other to get through this awful mess?

I think they do. I think they do, and that more damage can be done by shutting people out. It isn’t natural. Am I going to go out and started developing deep meaningful relationships with people? Probably not. No offense to those potential people, but along with all the perks of human connection comes a lot of maintenance and I just don’t have it in me. My first priority is and always shall be my relationship with my self, second to that the relationship with my family, and  third my relationship with love and closest friends. I think this statement and promise to myself boasts balance and health. For a long time I put the needs of others before myself, and I am getting better and better at not only handling my needs versus others in the moment, but projecting my future needs and managing relationships with others appropriately. It seems like these are skills I should have learned a long time ago, but I’m a little late to the party, guys. Sorry about all the mess.

Lastly, I leave you with this. The moments of joy are what count. Our interpretations of life are just that, ours. My New Year’s resolution is to find the joy before finding the negative. And none of that “Well, something negative happened and here’s the silver lining” bullshit. Find the joy. If you are like me, and you carry food on trays for a living, a lot of days can be rough. But there is always at least one moment of joy in each day. There is someone out there whose path intersects with yours and restores your faith in humanity. There will be a moment when you really see the beauty in what it is you do for a living, the beauty of where you live, or the beauty of a memory. By looking back and seeing the joy, the light, we will all sleep more soundly at night, and have faith in much better tomorrows. Because as the universe balances itself and there will inevitably be hardships and unhappiness in our lives, so will there always be moments of joy.

My experience nude modeling wasn’t what I expected, and I feel differently than I thought I would. It is no less positive than I was anticipating, just different than I thought.

First, I arrived at the school and met the art teacher. She was nice and mellow, and also very serious. She asked me if I was nervous (yes) and verified that I had not done this before. She walked me through the process and put me at ease.

I changed into my robe and slippers in the handicap stall in the bathroom. What a surreal moment that was – undressing in a bathroom stall. Bathrooms are for bathroom functions, not for undressing. Just felt kind of weird.

I then went to the art room and leaned against the counter in my robe and slippers. I think it was a good idea to buy a new robe – mine is a few years old and kind of ratty. It made me feel more comfortable having the nice new robe because I looked as put together as someone can in a robe. Plus I bought one that is extra-large so it’s nice and roomy like a blanket. New slippers, too, so that I looked about as slick as one can expect to.

I don’t know why, but it was imperative that my purse be in that room. My tote bag with clothing and my coat and sweatshirt were all in the office, but I needed my purse in the drawing-room with me. It wasn’t near me, left on the counter while I was posing, but its presence made me comfortable.

There were lots of students milling around and chatting about their personal lives and their art. No one looked at me directly that I noticed. No one spoke to me. It felt very strange to be in a room full of people who are about to give you their undivided attention but until that point completely ignore you. While I waited I texted, checked email, browsed Facebook, and look busy. After ten minutes of waiting I just started watching the artists move about and prepare their things. It occurred to me that perhaps I should pay attention to what was going on to mentally prepare, rather than distract myself.

At this point I felt pretty cool, dressed to the nines with my new robe and slippers, and thinking of myself as a model. I felt special and important, because my purpose was necessary for the artists to work. I felt fine about everything until I saw the art teacher wheel the model stand to the center of the circle of artists. Then my heart started to race.

A few of the artists made eye contact and smiled from time to time. They seemed like a diverse and nice group. There were more women than men and that made me comfortable.

The art teacher collected me and led me to the center of the circle. The artists were getting ready and weren’t paying attention. She was able to speak to me without all of them waiting on me to get started. She told me that I would face a certain way since some artists in the circle have been getting the back of the models lately. I told her I’d like to face that direction since I can look out a window that way. She arranged towels and foam underneath a white sheet and we talked about poses. I told her I didn’t want anything too ambitious since I had never done this and I didn’t want to mess it up. She understood. I explained a pose I had seen when researching this last night and she was receptive to this. She knew what she didn’t want and let me decide the rest.

This pose is very similar to the one I selected, except instead of looking away from the direction I was leaning, I was looking in the same direction. One arm was supporting me (like in this pose) and the other draped across my torso and resting by the other one.

She instructed me to “get settled”, but I wasn’t sure if that meant getting in the pose with my robe on or off. She kind of chuckled and told me to take the robe off and to just get it over with, essentially. Moment of truth!

In about point five seconds I mustered all of the courage I had and took the robe off. Many things run through your brain at this moment, but I found it didn’t matter. Cat was out of the bag, here I was, baring it all. Covering up quickly would not have made any difference. So, once the robe was off, I felt better. Plus, I didn’t look at anyone for fear that I would see them looking at me. I kept my eyes down.

I tried to arrange myself on the platform as gracefully as possible without exposing the most private parts of my female anatomy. I tried to do this as quickly as possible because the post I selected showed the parts I didn’t really care about and left the rest hidden. The art teacher then wheeled me into the proper position and locked the platform so it wouldn’t move. I had placed my robe on the platform in haste and wasn’t quite sure where it was, but didn’t want to move around too much to try to see what was behind me. Once I found my safe zone I wanted to stay there.

I found a comfortable position and the art teacher spoke to me about the breaks. I told her the timer was in my purse. For a moment I felt like it was weird to ask her to get it for me, but there was no way I was getting up after I had just taken the robe off. I probably wouldn’t get it off again. So she collected the timer and I explained that rather than have it count down and beep incessantly, I would have it count up and keep an eye on it and let her know when it reached twenty minutes.

I sat there while the artists got ready, which was pretty weird. Here I am all posing and stuff and they weren’t even paying attention. Definitely felt like a bowl of fruit. I made minor adjustments to the weight distribution of my pose and got ready to be still.

Finally she turned on the lamps, said for them to start, and I pressed start on the timer. Then I waited.

The first twenty-minute pose was pretty brutal. Twenty minutes is a long damn time to sit still. And, it’s not even about being still, it’s about blood flow. The weight of my upper body was resting on one hand and my hand and forearm were at a ninety degree angle. This cut off the blood flow to my hand and the tingles started, first in my hand then up my arm through my elbow and up to my shoulder. I very badly wanted to shake my wrist out but that was impossible. I was supposed to be still. By the end of the twenty minutes I had no feeling in my hand at all and couldn’t move my pinky and ring fingers. To bend my wrist in the opposite direction was extremely painful. It took ten minutes for it to feel normal again. I knew I had to do something different, there was no way I could be in that much pain five times in the next two hours.

During the break I put my robe back on and went to the bathroom, drank some water, and checked my phone. Inhaled some water by accident and had a coughing fit – embarrassing. An artist offered me a cough drop but I told her I had some. I told her I also had wet naps and aspirin – prepared for everything. She laughed. So, cool interaction there.

When it came time to take the robe off again and get in the position, I found that this was just as unpleasant as the first time. For some reason, sitting nude for twenty minutes isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as taking something off your body. There is a kind of intimacy to undressing, and I didn’t care for it. I’d probably rather be nude the entire time and walk around, etc, than put a robe on and take it off. Something deep within my brain was poking at me every time I took the robe off, reminding me that I was exposing myself. Oddly enough, sitting nude didn’t bother that part of my brain at all.

The second pose was not as bad as the first. I did not really announce that we were starting, it’s kind of obvious when the nude model is back on the platform, and the timer makes a loud beep when you start it. So, if they heard it great and if not whatever but I was going to sit still for twenty minutes and then get up. If an artist took five minutes to realize everyone else had started, that was just too bad.

During the second pose, I found a way to put most of my weight on my hip and little on my hand. I also found minute ways to adjust to keep the blood moving. The art teacher told me privately that I did a very good job for my first time and that made me happy. When all of your focus is on staying still and being in tight control over all your muscles, every movement feels like I might as well be jumping up and down. I was determined to be as statuesque as possible, but she let me know that the artists understand I am a person and some movement is necessary, because I shouldn’t be in a severe amount of pain.

Also during the second pose, I began to notice other things. I listened to the music more and I watched the light change through the window. I also noticed how much tension and muscle control it takes to keep your head still. I so badly just wanted to hang my head to give my poor neck a break. I also noticed that being so focused on the muscles in the upper half of my body was making me tremble slightly, and with these artists paying such close attention I did not want someone to advise me to take a break. So I had to get that under wraps. And, because my torso was turned, it was hard for me to take a deep breath. My breaths were normal and evenly spaced, but I longed to stretch my ribs and really fill my diaphragm and lungs.

Another thing that occurred to me was the half of the class I could not see because they were behind me. This freaked me out more than those facing me directly, but I tried not to think about it.

After the second pose I was about halfway through the gig and so I took a quick cigarette break. I went outside in my robe and slippers and found an alcove in the building to hide so no one would see me in my robe. At this point I was more uncomfortable smoking outside with a robe and slippers than I was sitting nude for strangers. Bizarre, huh?

For the third pose I was getting more comfortable, and also feeling more comfortable taking control in my role. During the second pose I sat for twenty-five minutes instead of twenty, because I sensed most of the artists were right in the middle of something. I felt bad taking a break anyway, because I knew they would draw me all day if I could sit that long. In a more comfortable position I probably could have. Laying down I probably could have fallen asleep for the entire three hours. This time I got in the pose with my robe on and then took it off from my seated position. This was still uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as standing and disrobing.

I also started alternating between my hand laying flat and making a fist to straighten my wrist to keep the blood flowing. This was irritating because every time I did this it moved my shoulder up or down two to three inches. I noticed a few minor exhales or bristles when I did this, but at this point I didn’t really care. I am a person after all, and I was just trying to stay in the least amount of discomfort.

At one point an artist approached me and requested that she move my robe, which the timer was on. I said sure and then reached over and grabbed the timer. I felt the mood change and I laughed and said “Um… I probably shouldn’t have moved, huh?” and there were a few chuckles. So the whole ordeal was generally relaxed.

The art teacher had been making rounds and advising each artist. Some artists seemed pleased while others frustrated. I could hear them talking about lines and shapes on my body, and my natural reaction was to look at what they were referring to but I had to sit still. Some artists were walking around and talking to other artists. It was fun to be a part of their conversations without being a part of them. It didn’t exactly feel like eavesdropping, though. When someone said something funny I smiled, and I did watch them from time to time. You can only stare out a window so long before you seek out other things to entertain you.

The other thing I noticed is that I was busy staring out the window but I could see five artists in front of me in my peripheral vision. One in particular was directly in my field of vision and I was looking at a space just above the top of her head. Every time one of the artists looked from their paper back to me, my manners wanted me to return the gaze, make eye contact, be polite. But that is frowned upon. That was even more uncomfortable than even being nude, feeling and seeing people looking at me and not able to look back at them.

For the fourth and final (I think) pose, I was getting pretty tired. It’s exhausting work sitting still and putting all of your focus on nearly every muscle group in your body. I was more relaxed and more comfortable making minor movements, because we were almost done. I started watching the artists directly and once in a while did make eye contact as a result.

When the art teacher called wraps, I put my robe back on and let out a sigh of relief. I did it! The artists pushed the teacher pretty hard that they weren’t finished, so she asked me to come in again on Thursday to do another session so they would have more time. I immediately said yes because it wasn’t so bad and they weren’t done. A few of the artists did allow me to see their work and I was very impressed, and relieved. Because it’s not a photograph, it is a representation and artistic perspective of me, the model. Some of the ones I saw did not include my head which means if someone I know comes across it it’s likely they will recognize it as my body. And the ones from the front do look like me, but someone might not necessarily recognize me immediately by looking at it. And, even if they did, the work is extremely classy and beautiful. I felt beautiful looking at them, like someone had captured grace and elegance I wasn’t sure I possessed. Perhaps I don’t possess it at all, perhaps the artist drew it that way. I don’t know much about drawing.

I got dressed and left and felt… very strange. First of all, I was exhausted. Second of all, I was starving. And third, I felt great but had a completely different set of feelings about it than I thought I would. The problems I thought I would have weren’t the big ones – mostly the problems I had were physical discomfort and mental stamina. No one looked at me in a leering or inappropriate way, they were focused and critical and paying attention. I felt their eyes on me but they were analyzing lines and shapes, not drooling over my figure. And there was a lot of holding the pencil up and turning it one way or another, then applying that same angle of the pencil to the page. Not exactly sure what that was about but it was funny to watch.

And, I didn’t feel as vulnerable as I thought I did. Perhaps I was, but so were they. I can’t even imagine how it would feel to sit and write with someone sitting in the same room. I would feel pressured and uncomfortable. I might have been performing, but so were they. And as a creative person, I often feel that works of art are rarely finished. They could always use some tweaking here or there and I am never fully satisfied with any creative piece I do. Fun fact – I do not re-read my blogs before publishing them. I do a spell check and that’s it. So if I start at point A and end up at point Tree, I don’t really know it until later.

All in all, it was exactly what I was looking for. I feel freed and different. And proud. Incredibly proud that I did something brave for my personal being. And excited. I am excited to go back Thursday, even though it’s going to be just as uncomfortable since it’s the same pose. I am more excited to continue working with students and doing this kind of thing regularly, I just hope I can find poses that are more comfortable or at least not so painful to hold.

In conclusion, this was awesome. And you should all do it at some point in your life.

Today I will be nude modeling for an art class at a local college. This is such a huge deal to me that this is my fourth attempt at writing this blog because I don’t even know where to begin.

Backtrack to a year ago, or thereabouts. I got this idea in my head that I really wanted to model nude for the purpose of art. I think that creative expression is vital to human existence, and the mediums we choose are our own business. I tend to write, as you may have noticed, but this seed planted in my brain that it would be an amazing experience to model nude for an art photographer, or a painter, or the like. Of course this idea was not well received by my husband and it wasn’t worth the fight so I kind of let it go. But the seed was there, waiting patiently.

A few months ago, I was having lunch with a friend and I found out she does this as a source of income. Immediately I told her that this is something I have wanted to do for a while. We didn’t really get into the specifics, but I told her to let me know when the opportunity arose for me to do this.

A few days ago, she let me know that today there is an art class and they need a model. My first reaction was, um, terror. Terror is probably a little dramatic but I definitely had a knot of tension in my tummy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything… because now I actually have to do it, or come to grips with how spineless I am.

To me, a body is just that – a body. We are born into it, grow into it, use it until it’s all used up, and then it goes back into the earth. I have a hard time feeling pride for features that are not mine to take credit for – I was born into a slender figure that requires very little maintenance. I don’t eat the right kinds of food and I don’t exercise. I don’t watch my weight and I just change clothing sizes when my body changes. My hair cooperates just because those are the genes I was born with. I recognize that I am very lucky, but I don’t take any credit for something that I had nothing to do with. My parents can take credit for creating me.

So, with that being said, I figured out a long time ago that a body is just a body and it’s not a big deal. Does that mean I go around and dress provocatively and slut it up? Not really. As a product of my raising I am extremely modest. If I lift my arms and my tummy shows, I need a longer shirt. Short skirts bother me and excessively tight clothing is uncomfortable. It is possible to feel sexy without looking like a prostitute. This idea is so deeply ingrained in me that I have a war going on between two beliefs: that a body is just a body and that it should be covered as much as possible at all times.

The other piece of this is that no matter how I appear to you, I appear to myself entirely different. There is no person on the planet that doesn’t have at least one thing about themselves they would change if it could easily happen. For me, there are several. That doesn’t mean I’m not okay with my body, but it’s not exactly to my liking. So I find clothing to be comforting, I can manipulate the way my body looks to feel good about myself and alter the impression that others have. I don’t go all out, as some say, but I do enough to feel good.

Taking all of that off leaves no barrier between the things about myself that I don’t care for and the people who are there to see it. Interestingly enough, I have no problem being nude with someone who I am romantically involved with. Probably because the sex part makes up for whatever it is about my body I think is undesirable. But this is completely different, I offer these people nothing except a figure to draw. So there’s that.

Basically what I’m left with is a mess of feelings. I have to come to grips with whatever fears I have about my body because once I take that robe off, I have to sit completely still for three hours. Yes, we have a break for five minutes every twenty, and I put the robe on during breaks, but twenty minutes is a long time to be completely still. I can’t even fidget to take my mind off how uncomfortable I am. The only thing that will have my undivided attention is this mess of feelings going on inside of me.

After giving it a considerable amount of thought, I decided to go ahead and do it. This is an opportunity to really push myself. To see what I’m made of, what kind of balls/spine/chutzpah/guts I have, because to me this is about confronting the way I feel about myself and the way I feel about the world. People shouldn’t take their clothes off in front of strangers, it’s just not proper. It would be better if I were at a nudist colony or something, and we were all in it together. But this is just me, in the flesh, with a bunch of complete strangers looking at me.

Once I talked it through with my friend, it was easier to make the decision to do it. For example, it’s not a bunch of eighteen year old brats in a random art class they took to fill their schedule. This is an advanced course and these artists are professionals, and I am a professional as well. I am discouraged against making conversation with them, my job is to sit still in twenty-minute intervals. I don’t make eye contact with them on purpose, and they don’t come near me. I am on a platform in the middle of a circle of artists and I have a bubble that no one invades. I will not be asked to do anything racy or promiscuous or even remotely sexual (as silly as that sounds, considering I will be naked). And these artists are looking at my body and they see shapes and lines and light and shadow. It’s not about sex or arousal or flirtation, it’s about art and the female figure. I might as well be a basket of fruit.

So, when I took all of that into the equation, all I was left with were my fears and insecurities and this internal struggle. And I wasn’t about to let THAT dictate my decisions… because no matter how I feel about my body or my view on the world, having to look myself in the mirror and know that I couldn’t do it because I was AFRAID? Don’t have the stomach for it. So I have to wrestle out every ounce of courage I’ve got because I’m committed to this. And writing about it, in the safety of my bedroom and fully clothed, it doesn’t seem so bad. But there is going to be a moment in a few hours when I have to untie my robe and take it off in front of a whole lot of people who I don’t know, so I’m not kidding myself. This won’t be pleasant at first.

But, I’m hoping that at the end of it, I will be permanently different. I will feel empowered and probably silly for being so afraid. I will have challenged myself and succeeded in facing some of the most vulnerable parts of my own psyche. I can’t wait to write about it later today.

In the wake of an epiphany I typically feel the need to write. Tonight I have made a discovery, although not exactly new I have new clarity and a sense of righteousness that cements this idea in my mind: There is nothing wrong with me and I should be loved exactly as I am.

As cliche as that sounds, and as common-knowledge as it may appear, it is one thing to know something as factual and quite another entirely to really believe it to your core. I am so shaken by these new found feelings that I am on the verge of tears from relief.

You see, each and every person is completely unique. We all share a common experience called human existence, but the sum of our collective experience causes us to be truly one of a kind. There really is no one in the world quite like me, or you for that matter. And because we are all completely different and incredibly complex, we all have something equally unique and complex to offer. Unfortunately, what we have to offer is never of use to every single other individual.

I firmly believe that all people can, on some superficial level, get along. Deeper levels of intimacy and commitment in friendships and romantic relationships require that deeper needs be fulfilled than the initial superficial level. When we really dive into another human being our emotions get ahead of us and when it doesn’t work out we are always left with the question: why?

Well, in EVERY scenario I can think of the answer is depressingly simple: incompatibility.

Think about it for a second. On a superficial level, one person has a passion for fishing and another for hunting. Although they may be able to find some common ground in conversation, it is unlikely they will be able to have an in-depth discussion about the finer points of either because they lack the compatibility to do so.

In romantic relationships, it takes very little compatibility to get started: a base level of attraction and the means to get to know one another. Things can go really smoothly for a while and then the inevitable incompatibilities start to reveal themselves and cause major issues.

For example, my EH and I were so different that I don’t know what we were thinking getting married in the first place. I think we felt like we had a lot to offer one another because we WERE so different. It was like – Hey! Here is this new person in my life that can challenge me in so many new ways! Unfortunately, in reality, that just doesn’t work out.

I began to resent his disinterest in my interests and I know he felt the same way about my disinterest in his. What started out as academic conversations about our differences ended up turning into arguments. These arguments almost always ended up being ugly because at the core, both of us were hurt. What does it say about me if the person who is supposed to love me could give a crap about my interests? Does that mean that I am not good enough because I am not more like him?

To add an even more complex layer, human beings are genetically designed to fear things that are not like them. We shy away from what is different than us because it threatens the species. Try combating that when tensions are high. Here’s a heads up: you can’t.

In my own relationship, these conversations and arguments became a pattern that was subtle and did mass amounts of damage. The fallout is that I am a human being that is accustomed to not only feeling bad about myself for being unlike my partner, but I will try (and fail) to be different in order to be loved. It’s not all his fault, either, because I know for a fact I did the same thing to him. I am not about to sit here and bash my EH – I remember saying things to him that could be summed up as follows: I am pointing out that you are different than me and I think you are less because of it. I may not have said these things outright – who would? But it was certainly the subliminal message. I did love him after all, and still do, and probably always will. But that does not mean we are remotely compatible.

So, what does that mean for romantic relationships? Are we all screwed? I think not. Even though it’s impossible to find someone with 100 percent compatibility, you can at least start by getting in the ballpark. Think about who you are and seek someone with common interests, goals, values, religious beliefs, or whatever you find to be most important to you. I believe it is possible to deeply love someone with whom you have nothing in common, but it is hard to build a lasting relationship with out any kind of common ground. The hunter will never convince the fisherman that he loves to fish, and the fisherman will never convince the hunter that he loves to hunt.

So, with this realization, what does that mean for Kyrston? Well, for starters, it means there is nothing wrong with me. My relationship, the arguments, the cruel things said to one another, the violence – all can be chalked up to incompatibility and extreme measures in the face of adversity. Some of it was just plain weak character on both of our parts, but at the core there is nothing wrong with either of us. We are just people and one of us is a hunter and the other a fisherman. Personally I wish I had picked a better example, perhaps one involving shoes, because I don’t care for either of those. I suppose if I had to choose I would choose fishing.

Anyway, my EH and I… we did love each other. I did love him for every thing that made him different, not in spite of it. But that was never going to be enough for a mutually satisfying life together. The elusive “it” that everyone talks about… I think what they are referring to is a real connection of kindred spirits and the highest compatibility possible between two individuals.

So, it’s okay that I didn’t want to have sex as often as he did. It’s okay that I like getting my nails done and my hair done and having shoes that I will never wear just to have them. It’s okay that I love reading more than watching sports and that I prefer Katy Perry over whatever is on the angry rock music station. It’s okay that I don’t like taking out the trash but like folding laundry, and it’s okay that he doesn’t do laundry the way that I like it to be done. It’s okay that he loves playing softball and flag football just about every waking moment of the day. It’s okay that he would rather spend his time playing Call of Duty than watching Glee. It’s okay that we have different religious beliefs, it’s okay that we feel differently about how to tip at a restaurant (or just about anywhere) and it’s okay that he liked Michigan and I like Ohio State. All of it is okay. I am not less than him, and he is not less than I.

I have been spent a long time feeling cruddy about myself because I could tell that I wasn’t making him happy and no matter how many times I spoke poorly of him, I never really believed any of it. I can’t believe that personal preference makes me better than any human being and I also can’t believe that I am unlovable because I was incompatible with my husband. So, Kyle, if you are reading this, I want you to know that I am deeply sorry for every time I made you feel like you were less than me or that the things that made you different made you undesirable. I am issuing this public apology because I have to acknowledge that for every negative thing I feel about myself, I know that I probably did the same thing to you. I think sometimes we did it on accident, but near the end it was just plain cruel to treat one another that way and I regret it. Maybe we should have gotten out sooner, but you and I both know we were happy the day we were married and so no one can judge us for that.

So what thoughts do I leave you with, my readers? The very next chance you get, tell someone you know that you appreciate that they are different. They they matter, that they have value, that they are unique and completely singular and that is a good thing. And the next time your friend goes through a breakup, assure him/her over and over again that sometimes people just don’t work out and that’s okay, too. Our emotions are so deep and complex that we forget how simple the world really is. We forget that no two people are alike and it is a mathematical impossibility to have perfect compatibility. We think that we are broken or damaged or unlovable when we’re not.

We’re all together in this human experience, each in our own unique way, searching for another to share it with as best we can.

It’s late. I’m wired and can’t sleep. For days I have been considering blogging about the past few weeks and some of the transformations I have undergone but I never quite felt the need to write it all out. And up until now, I haven’t really needed to. But now I need to. And so I will.

Being divorced is one of the most awful experiences I have ever gone through in my entire life. I think I can safely say that if I were to take the sum of all relationship pain up until this point and lump it all together, this is worse to the tenth power. It is a demoralizing and degrading experience fraught with peril. I tend to air on the side of dramatic, but that’s the simple truth. It is a god damn mess.

I can’t speak for others, but all of my resources have led me to the same statement: divorce is this bad for EVERYONE. It is a messy painful ordeal and I am about to tell you why.

First, it might make more sense if I tie this altogether in the magical pyramid in The Book. The Book I refer to is called Rebuilding When Your Relationship Ends, Third Edition. It is widely used and was originally published in 1981. Thirty One years of this book guiding people along their way through this mess and only on its third edition. Impressive. Even more impressive is that my therapist recommended it to me immediately and with such conviction that I, a skeptic when it comes to self-help books, bought it immediately following the end of my session that day.

So, I bought the book and waited for it to arrive. Less than ten dollars on Amazon used. Funny that, minus the cost of the divorce itself, the cost of rebuilding my life is less than ten dollars including shipping.

When the book arrived I started at the VERY beginning, even electing to read the foreword that I usually opt out of. Immediately I was fascinated. Not only is this structured in a way that is easy to follow (rebuilding blocks in the shape of a pyramid) but there are real examples of people from seminars and their experiences on certain blocks along the way. The Book refers to this process of rebuilding as a journey, a hike up a mountain, with all the crappy stuff at the bottom, somewhere along the middle it gets easier, and at the top is reward: freedom.

Now, before you get all groan-y thinking it’s cheesy, Freedom implies complete singular independence and emotional stability. Complete emotional well-being and self-reliance and such well balance that nothing can hold you back. It is not freedom from the chains of your previous relationship, but freedom from your own chains. The Book and The Journey are focused on rebuilding YOU, not necessarily picking apart your relationship.

The first rebuilding blocks are rather straightforward. Along the bottom you have: denial, fear, adaptation, loneliness, friendship, and guilt/rejection.

Denial – This can’t be happening to me. Rejecting the acceptance that your marriage is ending/has ended. I have to say I had very little of this, considering I ended my marriage. I was definitely shocked at how it happened, and I still struggle to see how it happened exactly, but there’s no denying anything when you say to your husband “Get  your shit and get out of my house.”

Fear – What will happen to me? How will I survive? Fear was a big thing for me in the beginning. Being so accustomed to having someone in your bed at night, or there in the morning, when strange noises come from pipes and wind – it was really scary at first. And, not knowing what my ex-husband might do next – terrifying. When it’s dark and you’re alone it’s hard to fall asleep at night no matter how many times you check the locks on every door and window when you have been given proof of how unpredictable another human being can be.

Adaptation – Adaptation centers on unhealthy behavior as a result of something lacking in your formative years. For example, adaptive behaviors include being a people-pleaser, being over-responsible for others, having an urge to help, and being a perfectionist. I possess all of these qualities. Does that mean four times the lack existed in my formative years? I don’t know. The Book isn’t really clear on how these things come to be, but it encourages you to explore your own past and find answers. The Book does say specifically that a person that does not have the needs for nurturing, attention, and love will develop these behaviors – but I honestly have a hard time recalling anything my parents did to cause such an adaptive response. It’s more likely that having a hard time connecting with my peers, even at a very young age, and experiencing rejection over and over, caused me to develop these social responses.

Loneliness – Oh, loneliness. My newly found friend. The loneliness, at times, is overwhelming. It can strike even when surrounded by people who love you. There are so many times when I just want my EH for one reason or another and he’s not here, I left him. He deserved it, and so did I, and no matter what emotional ties still remain we are never getting back together – but I do get lonely. And not just, hey… I’m bored and could use some company. I’m talking deep in the pit of your gut and all the way to the center of your soul aching loneliness.

Friendship – Friendship is complicated after divorce. The Book says that a lot of friendships end because married couples have other married couples as friends and when divorce happens the other married couples feel threatened by it so those friendships end. My EH and I didn’t have a lot of married friends but there were certainly His people and My people and the added layer that I moved halfway across the country… a lot of friendships are maintained only over the phone now and some are just over. It’s depressing. I invested almost as much of myself into His people as I did into Him.

Guilt/Rejection – The Book says the “dumper” (me) feels the guilt whereas the “dumpee” (my EH) feels the rejection. Easy enough. The guilt is not so bad as it was in the beginning, and it was never so bad that I wanted to change my mind. It was just hard to stomach abandoning someone I loved so much when he clearly needed me more than ever, but staying with him was something I couldn’t stomach more so that won out. I feel confident in my decision and that guilt is a useless emotion so I do not spend so much time feeling guilty, I trust that his family is taking care of him. And since our separation in June I feel I have been nice enough to him and given him some valuable pieces of advice to help him along his way.

The second layer of the pyramid is as follows: grief, anger, letting go, self-worth, transition.

Grief – My therapist tells me (as does The Book) that divorce is like a death. You are literally seeing your entire future, which you were SO looking forward to, die right before your eyes. In my case, there were so many things I was so excited about doing with my EH that I am so saddened will never happen. Like many people in love, we discussed child rearing (and were actively trying to have a baby) and home buying and careers and cars and parenting and our entire future. Goals and hopes and dreams. All of that ripped away. And, of course, grief over the life we DID have. The love we shared, our dog, our home, and my in-laws. I miss them terribly. With the holidays coming up I can’t tell you how much it hurts that I won’t be with them. Living in Ohio, so far away from my parents and sisters, my in-laws really opened their hearts and made me a part of every aspect of their lives. I never got the chance to say goodbye to them, there is no closure there. And I was so happy to be a part of their family.

Anger – Anger is probably my favorite block in the pyramid because reading about Anger validates every feeling I have. I felt like a crazy person with how angry I was, and am, sometimes. It’s not about being pissed off. It’s not about rage. Rage is a red-hot short lived burst of feeling with adrenaline pouring through you. This kind of anger is different. It’s black and like smoke and it creeps. It creeps from the darkest place in your heart and soul and seeps into every cell of your being. It is bitter and hateful and mean. It is the meanest you will ever feel and makes you feel sick, affected, like an illness. You would happily run over your ex in your car and then throw it in reverse and back over, not because of rage… because of this creeping anger and desire to cause pain and suffering. Remember how I said I thought I was crazy? Apparently it’s completely normal. Talk to any divorced person about this kind of anger. I’ve never felt it in my life, but it’s not so bad if I just breathe through it and give myself the chance to feel rather than feeling bad about it. It passes. But it’s a good thing we’re not in the same room when I get that mad. I wouldn’t get violent, but I’d pull out every hurtful thing I knew about him and exploit it until he cried. Because it’s dark and twisted. And not at all me. But it’s a part of the process and I’m not ashamed to put that in print.

Letting Go – Letting go is in the center of the pyramid because it’s a crucial part of healing and rebuilding. Letting Go is just that… the ability to let it go. Disconnect the emotional ties from your ex and move forward as one person. So far in The Journey all of the blocks are directly related to dealing with what happened – The Divorce. Moving forward is about just you as a person and discovering who you are. At this point I struggle with this block, and from what I’ve read it’ll be about six months before I’m ready to let it go. There are certain parts of my life that are exclusively my EH’s. Certain things that meant so much to me that I am not quite ready to let it go yet. For example, Christmas last year was not only our first Christmas as a married couple and new family, but the first Christmas that emotionally I let go of my immediate family and embraced my EH as my new family. It was a big deal for me, because Christmas was always a big deal in my family and is a big deal to me. And last year was about creating new memories and new traditions and a new life for every Christmas following. This year, it’s too soon to give that up. It meant too much. It helps that I will be with my family for this difficult holiday season but I also feel protective over those memories and also the urge to reclaim my own life by making new ones without reverting back to the pre-married traditions. This year, to symbolize this, I am getting my own live table-top sized Christmas tree to put on my desk that I alone will purchase the ornaments for. The Kyrston Christmas tree. Anyway, until I can conquer this block I am kind of stuck.

Self–Worth – is exactly that. Being divorced definitely lowers your self-esteem and self-worth and it causes you to feel a lack of identity. I invested so much of myself in my relationship and I am at a complete loss for who I am without that person in my life. I question what it is I REALLY stand for. The core of this being, of course, that being treated poorly in my marriage causes me to feel that I am undeserving of love and respect. Since I felt I was true to who I was, it makes it even harder because I was essentially rejected at the most intimate level. So, was I really true to who I was? Who am I exactly? This part of The Journey is about being focused on reinforcing a healthy self-image and really believing that I’m not so bad after all.

Transition – This block is about really getting to the bottom of why my marriage ended or perhaps why it even started in the first place. I am more than halfway through the pyramid or Journey at this point and it’s not until NOW that I’m really getting to the bottom of the Whys and Hows of my relationship.

The next line in the pyramid is as follows: openness, love, trust, and relatedness.

Openness – A symptom of being divorced is putting up tons of walls and being extremely guarded. It does not necessarily mean I am being dishonest, but I have put myself in a position where no one can hurt me. This causes me to be superficial in the new friendships I am creating and distant in my current ones. Loved ones around me are often bothered by this and possibly nervous and new people I meet either find me to be mysterious and alluring (ha.) or disconnected. Honestly I think the new ones aren’t paying that close attention and my loved ones know enough to know that I am better off left alone. I am cagey and tense, like a kicked animal I shy away from human contact. There are a select few in my support system that know me on an intimate level, but even some things I keep to myself. Opening up is hard after you’ve been hurt so deeply and profoundly. This building block is about learning, little by little, it’s okay to show who you are.

Love – Love from someone else is a difficult concept to grasp after the supposed love of your life has betrayed and hurt you so deeply. In the beginning I said what many divorced people say – I am never getting married again. It’s not about the wedding or status of wife, it’s about the level of intimacy and deep emotional connection that you have with that special person. Another layer of this would be that if I can’t love myself, how can anyone love me?

Trust – Also tying in with Love, learning to trust and letting those walls down.

Relatedness – Relatedness has to do with the love relationships you have after your divorce. Often you find yourself drawn towards the exact opposite of what you left, and since you are so vulnerable and in so much pain, your emotions and judgement are affected. This new person makes you feel even better than before because they are validating every  thing about you the previous one rejected. Unfortunately, the point of The Journey is for ME to take responsibility over my OWN good feelings about myself rather than rely on another human being to supply that need. And it’s important to be careful here, because a lot of people seek therapy not after their divorce ends, but after that first post-divorce relationship (which you have put all your stock into) ends.

The next line is as follows: sexuality, singleness, purpose.

Sexuality – Now is the time, in theory, that one should be ready to be intimate with someone they trust and love and the prospect of dating, although scary, easily achievable.

Singleness – This is, for me, the block that I recognize as the most important but not necessarily my favorite. Singleness represents the ability to be single and completely independent – and be okay. As independent as possible. For example, I probably won’t be able to achieve this block… living with my parents. In order for this process to work, in theory, I have to be alone for a while and be content being alone. No, more than content. I need to be happy alone before I can even consider creating a life with someone else.

Purpose – It’s time to find purpose in my life and work towards goals now that I am a well-balanced, emotionally stable, independent, happy individual.

The final block: freedom.

Freedom – As I said in the beginning, freedom implies complete singular independence and emotional stability. Complete emotional well-being and self-reliance and such well balance that nothing can hold you back. It is not freedom from the chains of your previous relationship, but freedom from your own chains. It also represents freedom of choice, to be happy as a single person or happy entering freely into another relationship.

Now, in addition to those rebuilding blocks, I have some other thoughts.

The Book makes some very interesting points that I have never considered before. So many people talk about getting married and being in love and saying things like “You complete me” or “I am one half and you make me whole”. Even the candle lighting ceremony at some weddings uses two candles to light a third and the two original ones snuffed out.

The Book gets angry at this and instead proposes this instead: love relationships and marriages should be entered into ONLY by two people who have reached the end of The Journey successfully. They should both be as balances as possible and as self-sufficient (emotionally and otherwise) as possible to create a life together. When I reflect on my marriage, this was not the case. We were two broken people coming together to love each other through it, and even if the deep feelings are there – sometimes it just isn’t enough. If I had been a complete well-balanced person, perhaps I wouldn’t have been attracted to my EH in the first place (and the reverse is true as well).

Even now I find other people’s problems irritating when it’s obvious they aren’t working on them. I have no patience for it. This process is painful and uncomfortable and requires a lot of sacrifices. I’m basically performing an autopsy on my dead marriage and also an exploratory surgery on my own psyche – without anesthesia! It’s terrible. I hate it. But I recognize that it’s completely necessary and without it I will likely experience the same level of pain in the future, and I just can’t do this again. It’s awful. I don’t know how ANYONE does this more than once.

The process itself takes a solid year, according to most sources. Some (is not many) take 1-3 years or 3-5 years. Sounds like an awful long time to wait before entering in to a really serious commitment… but on the other hand that commitment is probably doomed to fail because I am even more screwed up now than I was before and a serious committed relationship would probably just distract me from working on myself.

On the plus side, I have an amazing support system that is here for me emotionally, spiritually, and physically. On dark days where I burst into tears

-side note… I have cried more in the past six months than I have in the past six years. I mean, at least three times a week. Ridiculous.-

they are there for me and understand I need extra love and patience right now. I am so incredibly grateful that I have these people, and my therapist says that it is crucial to a faster recovery and rebuilding process. And as much as it all sucks, I really have faith in the process and believe that at the end of it I will be a superhero or something compared to what I am now, to myself. So it’s worth it.

But man, does it suck.

When I moved back home to live with my parents, I knew I needed to find a job with flexible hours that had the potential to make pretty piles of cash. Being a waitress seemed like the best option – I have previous experience working in restaurants in many different roles: busser, host, assistant waiter, line cook, prep cook, dishwasher… and yet I had never formally served before. I was confident I could do it but lots of things made me nervous.

For example… I don’t like people all that much. When people ask me what I do for a living and I tell them I’m a server, they usually have a few questions or things to say. A common one is, “I don’t think I could do that. I don’t like people that much.” I usually laugh and tell them I don’t like people at all, either. You would think it would be hard to have to deal with the public, but I don’t have a problem with it at all. This is for a few reasons. One – no matter how unpleasant a table can be, their meal is only going to last an hour and a half, maybe two hours, and then they go away and you get a fresh set of guests.

I consider myself to be, on the whole, pretty socially awkward. Once I get to know you, I am a lot more relaxed and my weird stuff seems charming. But I tend to make a pretty terrible first impression. I was nervous about essentially introducing myself to new people over and over. What I’ve learned are these things: you’re not actually introducing who you are, just giving your name. All that’s expected is for you to be polite, smile, and attentive.  And bring things when they are needed. So, I have absolutely no anxiety about all of this stranger exposure. At first I was terrified I’d screw it all up, and I did a few times!, but mostly I just got over it. Plus, these encounters with the guest are less than five minutes with breaks in between. When a table wants to start a long conversation, then I feel awkward. I usually say or do something ridiculously silly and then quickly make fun of myself for them to laugh and make a quick exit to go cry in a corner. Okay, just kidding about the last part.

Another thing people are curious about is how much a server REALLY makes. I have to say that my experience is definitely limited, but so far what I’ve seen is that there is a lot of potential to make great money… but the catch is you have to actually do the work. Being a waitress isn’t like your standard cubicle experience. The money you make is directly affected by a few factors: how many shifts you work, when those shifts are, the size of the tables (how many guests per table), how busy the restaurant is, what time of year it is, the temperament of the guests, and whether or not you are willing to bust your ass.

That sounds like a scary situation, considering I could just get a regular job where my pay is consistent, but there are tons of things I get out of working as a server that a cubicle job doesn’t provide (in my past experience in a cubicle): I get to pick my own hours so my schedule can fit my needs, I get to interact with a constantly changing group of people, I have a better relationship with management, I work with a great team of people that understand exactly what is going on, and I get instant gratification for my performance. Some days I make great money, other days I don’t make so much. At first I was calculating the tip I received based on percentage, but I quickly learned that is a bad idea. I just keep my receipts and get the total at the end of the day. Seeing over and over again someone else’s idea of compensation for my work can be really depressing. It’s obvious when someone tips well, and I take a moment to experience the joy, but I don’t really pay attention to the actual percent if I think it might be crappy.  I also don’t put a lot of stock into how much I make per shift. I just wait until the end of the week and put it all in the bank. That does make me feel good.

Things are tough these days, guys. A lot of people can’t afford to go out to eat. When they do, they want it to be worth every penny they don’t really have to spend. My philosophy is that great service often times is more important than the quality of the meal. So I try really hard to anticipate my guest’s needs and deliver the best customer experience possible. Furthermore, I don’t do this to make a buck, because that is so transparent. I do it because I really care about the people having a great meal.

One thing I will never understand, however, is the people that come in to eat and look pissed off about it. I have to tell you that I have angry irritated guests more often than guests that stiff me on the tip. It never ceases to amaze me how irate people are when they go out to eat. Maybe that’s because I hardly ever have the money to do that, so when I do it’s like freaking Christmas morning. I’m just excited to have something delicious to eat without doing any of the work – for any of it! But so often I have tables of people that just look angry at the world. It makes me sad, because the experience is supposed to be a break from life for an hour or so, but maybe they don’t see it that way.

The other thing about being a server that I love is the environment of the restaurant. In the front of the house (dining room) you have soft music, quiet conversation, and polite unobtrusive servers at tables. In the back of the  house (kitchen), it’s an entirely different world. When it’s slow it’s relaxing and people have conversations and do busy work and just chill out. All of a sudden it’s busy and it’s like a tornado of uniforms bustling about. Trays of hot food being slung about, trays of drinks flying around, yelling over the noise, tensions running high, and lots and lots of attitude. Not attitude in a bad way necessarily, but when people are busy the manners kind of fly out the window and everyone is very direct.

It’s almost a crash course in social development. A constantly changing troupe of individuals trying to build relationships with one another under all that pressure. In my opinion, everyone should spend a few months doing this. And everyone that does it should, at some point, do everything else as well. Having the knowledge that I have about other positions makes me appreciate those around me more.

Like the dishwasher, for example. That is a filthy job. I mean really filthy. And once you do it you can be sensitive to the needs of your dishwasher so as not to disrespect them. Stack things properly and don’t throw things around too much because just on the other side of that station is someone getting covered in god knows what because you weren’t paying attention.

I feel the same way about bussing tables. I’ve done that, and it’s hard work. It’s just constant lifting and carrying and moving at a really fast pace and dealing with attitude from the servers that it isn’t fast enough, etc. I always try to bus my own tables if I can because I just like helping out, but I always tip the same no matter what.

Another person to be courteous to is the bartender. Since we can’t make our own drinks, we completely rely on our bartender to take care of us on behalf of the tables. I always try to be patient and not hover and tip even if I don’t have any bar drinks in a shift. They work hard no matter if I need them or not, and at some point I will need them.

The most respect I have, however, is for the awesome men and women on the line. I think as a general rule the servers think the line should have their shit together enough to make sure the food comes out in a timely manner, and the cooks think the servers should realize that while they are taking care of three tables, the cooks take care of the ENTIRE restaurant. When I find myself in the weeds or really busy, I just remember that no matter how busy I feel with three tables and maybe 12 guests, the line is taking care of every table in the restaurant which amounts to a hundred people or more. Furthermore, the servers purposefully time when the meals go in, and sometimes the line can get hit with ten orders all at once. While they are in the middle of working on that, more come in. I know from experience that the beginning of a night for a cook can be slow, but once things get going they don’t really stop until the very end. Servers either have a steady pace or get hit all at once and then have periods of breaks or down time. Cooks don’t really experience that once it gets that busy. On top of that, a team of four of five people are trying to handle the needs of fifteen or twenty people asking questions and needing things from them, on top of the guests. Very rarely do I see a cook ask a server for anything, but we are always asking them for things. I definitely have mad respect for the line.

It’s one giant machine engineered to work so long as all of the pieces function properly. It sounds super cheesy but we really are one team and no part of that team is less than another. And, there is a fluidity there that is comforting. If I get tables sat at weird intervals (cause that just happens, it’s no one’s fault really) and my pace is off, I just have to wait an hour or so for it to reset and everything starts over. On a really weird night when the pace of the entire restaurant is off, everyone might leave pissed and tired, but the next day is a completely fresh start.

All in all, I try really hard not to piss anyone off, and I never get angry at my team. Mostly I just get frustrated with myself when I am having an off day, especially if it affects those around me. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been a complete bitch just because I am stressed or tired or it’s just because I am not thinking. It doesn’t happen often, I hope, and it doesn’t happen that consistently with anyone that I work with. We are all bitchy or mean at one point or another, we just can’t help it, and sometimes we have to be. We’re also sometimes so incredibly over the top sweet to one another… when we really need help with something. It’s sometimes kind of fake and self-serving, but we are all supposed to lean on one another anyway and throw the crap out the window. But we all laugh and have a good time and no one is permanently affected (I don’t think).

It’s a great job and even though there is more stability working in a cubicle, it’s way more fun to do what I do and way more fulfilling. I can’t tell you how many times in my cubicle life I felt underpaid, under recognized, or poorly treated and let slip through the cracks and it was definitely not worth the steady paycheck. Those things do not happen in this environment as long as you are loud and assertive and also kind and understanding and polite. It’s definitely a balance and worth the weird hours and sore feet and being tired and never knowing for sure how much you’ll make.

As a person going out to eat, I would encourage you to definitely think about all of the things that go on behind the scenes to ensure your experience is a good one. Also, I can’t tell you how many times I have been stiffed for something that wasn’t my fault. The best thing to do, if you are unhappy for any reason at all, is to ask to speak with a manager. If you still want to stiff me because it makes you feel better, go for it. But problems don’t get solved by not paying a server. They go to the other servers, bitch about what happened, and if they can’t figure out if it was their fault – they chalk it up to you being cheap. We know you have better manners than to outright say you’re unhappy. I’ve been in that position… and it feels weird to complain to your waitress. But I am always happy when someone asks to talk to a manager because that means the problem is going to be solved and you leave happy rather than leaving and telling your friends about your terrible experience with our restaurant.

The whole point is to go out and have a fabulous meal with fabulous service and leave wholly satisfied! Happy eating =)