I’m not alone 

The thing that comes with hiding everything is loneliness. No one ever knows the truth. No one knows anything. I’ve always been surrounded by people. I grew up in a big beautiful family. How did I manage to make myself feel so lonely? I did that by hiding everything. I did that by telling anyone what they wanted to hear or not saying anything. Then, I went back to hiding in my horrible dark world. Alone. That was my norm. Sometimes it still is my norm. It became a habit. A hard habit to break. 

It started out as fear. Sometimes it was embarrassment. Most of the time I didn’t want to take anyone down with me. I didn’t want to share the pain. It was bad enough I had to carry it. I remember actually thinking that as a child. Most of the times I would just shut down. I wouldn’t say a word. You could sit there and ask me questions or talk to me and I would be mute. I remember wanting so bad to talk. I remember telling myself in my head, “Open your mouth! Say something!” I just couldn’t get anything to come out. Sometimes it was probably out of stubbornness. Most times  it was deeper than that. To be honest, sometimes I still shut down like this. Not often, but it does happen.  Old habits… 

It seems as I grew older and older my secrets grew to be  bigger and bigger. From not liking oatmeal and having nightmares, to sexual and drug abuse.  I never stopped hiding. I kept it inside of myself where only I could be hurt by it. I alienated myself. I was surrounded by people and completely alone. It started off as unintentional and then became the only way I knew how to be. Alone in my misery.  I know, misery usually loves company, but I guess I must be a decent person. I only feel that way about dieting, exercise, sad movies, etc. Then, I believe everyone should suffer with me. 

I’ve had to work hard at being honest with myself and with others. I have to work hard to say things out loud and put them into other people’s worlds. I have to work hard at not wanting to be alone. Whether it’s alone in my misery, hopes, goals, fears,etc., I’ve had to learn how to let people know and see that. I still want to be alone most days. However, now I can’t shut up it seems. Perhaps I’m making up for lost time. As I heal and discover, I find myself being able to share more of my life and myself that I worked so hard to keep hidden. There’s also times where I’m still not ready to talk or share things. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever be able to lay it all out on the line. If I let my depression take the wheel, it would and has convinced me before that I’ll always be alone in this. It’s easy for me to run away and convince myself I won’t ever find peace. That I will forever be in pain by myself. That no one will ever know these things I carry inside of me. My head will turn on me with the quickness. I need my reality checks. I need my list of what my life is now. I need my husband asking me questions that annoy me. I need to keep sharing. I need to keep being honest and not just try to shut people up or shut myself down. It’s taking me time and I know more time than most, but that’s how I roll. I’m healing and learning. It’s great being able to tell people I don’t really care for Adele’s music, I can’t ride a bike, I tried to kill myself more than once, I still believe in  and pray to God, I suffer from anxiety attacks, Beyoncé doesn’t empower me, driving still scares me, I’m a woman whose body rejects pregnancy, I’m an addict, I’ve never seen Star Wars, I’ve been losing weight for 1.5 years and I’m still overweight,  I’m Pro-Life, I feel all alone in a room full of people, I met my husband in rehab, I believe America is the best country in the world, I once stole 9 barglasses from applebees, etc. I told you guys. I can’t seem to shut up now. I know, I’m not for everyone. I’m not even for myself most of the time, but I’m as real and honest as I know how to be. It’s really taken me a lot to be able to say anything honest about myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been more genuine or true to myself. I wish I wouldn’t have wasted so much time alienating myself. I wish I could go back and let people into my world. I can’t do that, but I can let them in now. I can come out from hiding and be honest with them now. I’m lucky that I’ve had this long to come clean and try to welcome my loved ones into my secret world. I can only hope I’m blessed with more time. I want my mom and loved ones to get to experience the real deal. I realize I’m trying to make up for lost time, but I feel like if I’m lucky enough to be alive, why wouldn’t I spend that time with those most important to me? Making amends and healing by action. Making the most of my time.  Sharing the “real Gabi” finally.  I’ve been alone for way too long.  What am I doing alone in Houston? I think I’m doing this all wrong…. 

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Half of me 

My parents split up when I was around 3 years old. There were 3 of us and my mom was pregnant with my brother, when we left our sperm donor. That was it. He never wrote, called, showed up to court, never gave my mom a cent, etc. Nothing. 4 children that were half his and he couldn’t mail a damn birthday card. Jerk. 

When I was 17 years old, I was on meth and a mess. I moved away to my aunt and uncles to get some help. I started to see a counselor. Her name was, “Judy.” She was lovely.  I remember our first session she asked me what my first memory was. I remembered being in a crib. I remembered playing and trying to get a tooth brush (I think) off the bed next to the crib. I remember my father yelling and smacking my hand. I remember him leaving and never seeing him again. I never knew how that one moment would define so much of who I am. I didn’t want people to leave me. I didn’t say no to anyone. I didn’t fight. I was  fearful. I was a pleaser. I would let someone take my soul and not say anything. The list could go on and on. 

It’s funny how our heads work. I have a wonderful mom. She’s been there from the begining. Loving, playful, and full of  fight for us. Why couldn’t my first memory be of playing with my mom? What was it about this one memory that made it stick and be first? Why?  I’ve often wondered why I was left with this memory instead of him just not existing to me. I’ll never know. Just like I’ll never know most answers to questions I have about him. 

I honestly don’t know if a child will ever get over being abandoned by a parent. I don’t know that there’s anything that will ever fill that void or answer so many questions that being abandoned brings. We had a good family that helped raised us and loved us. A power house mom that somehow not only survived, but thrived with all 4 of us. We were never without. I mean, we grew up with a lot less than most. We struggled to make ends meet, but we were never without. We always had clothes, shelter, food, etc. We could have everything, but we still didn’t have a father. Well we did have a father. We’ve always had a father. He may have been a horrible father, but he was ours. 

He ended up getting into a horrible car wreck and survived years later. He was paralyzed, and could barely talk, but he was alive. We received a letter some time after the accident. My mom told us there was a letter for us to read, when we felt ready. A little bit of time passed and I didn’t read it. One day I was high on God knows what and went looking for that damn letter. Big mistake. I read it and put it back like I had never seen it. Boy, I was livid. Before I was sad, hurt, confused, maybe even a little angry, but now? I was shaking in anger. I kept that a secret and just held on to it alone. Never told anyone I read it. He ended up dying. 

My mom asked us if we wanted to go to his funeral. She left the choice to us. My brothers and I decided to go. So we made the trip to Mexico with my mom. I remember my heart racing as we stood in front of the church. I remember being scared. I wasn’t scared of what I would see or the people. I was scared I wouldn’t be able to control myself. I was scared I would go kick the casket over. I was scared I would start screaming in anger and not be able to stop. I saw people crying and mourning this man that I had mourned my entire life. I was so confused. Could a man that abandons 4 children be lovable? Could that man be someone that made people happy? There across the aisle sat a girl with her mother. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably. The girl looked like me. That girl was his daughter. He was a dad? She knew him? Why? Why her? How could she love this man? I was so angry and so jealous. I knew he was a piece of crap, but I was still jealous. Why was she ok to love, but not me? We made it through the funeral. I didn’t kick the casket. I didn’t scream.  Instead, I walked up to his daughter and I told her I was sorry for her loss. I gave her a hug and told her I was so so sorry she lost her dad. 

I read that letter again eventually. Years later. I read the letter sober and as a mother. You know, I like to believe that I’ve done a lot of work on myself. I’ve worked hard to try and get over my shit. Reading the letter again, I still have anger and confusion. It no longer consumes me, but it’s there. In the letter he had said that we weren’t his kids. We were my mom’s kids. She raised and cared for us. The thing is that’s not how this works. When you have a child, that is your child. No matter what, he was my father. I was his child. He had that role whether he wanted it or not. I am a mother and I am responsible for the type of parent I am to my daughter. If I were to leave her, she suddenly wouldn’t stop being my daughter. He was a coward and in the letter I felt he was still trying to avoid responsibility. My aunt asked him what he wanted to say to us. He said, “I’m sorry.” My aunt had asked him if he loved us and she said, “He yelled at me as he was pounding his chest, “aquí los llevo!” (“I have them here”). Reading these things in the letter I felt as if I was being lied to. I wondered if a person that can abandon four children and never look back can even feel remorse. He was sorry? For what? Years and years and years and yearrrrss went by. Where he could’ve talked, written, etc. Now he was dying and he said, “I’m sorry.”  It just wasn’t enough for me, but it’s all I received and have. 

I never asked any questions I had. I never screamed and let it out. I never attacked him, while I sobbed as I had envisioned so many times. I realized I had everything I was going to get from him. Long lashes, issues, and my brothers. 

He had substance abuse issues (alcohol and drugs).  He was a liar. He was abusive. He was selfish. He hurt my mom. He hurt my brothers. He hurt me. He hurt everyone. It would be really easy for me to be just like him. I can’t tell you how terrifying that is. I have everything inside of me to follow lead. I have to fight like hell so that side of me doesn’t win. Today I write this as a 32 year old that is still angry and hurt. My father died and we never made peace. I was never given the chance to love my father.  I feel like that will probably be with me forever. Just like he’s always been with me forever. Whether he wanted it or not. He was there.  

Success story 

I planned on continuing last week’s blog about my weight loss journey. Every time I started to write, I felt pulled towards another direction and fell flat. So I’m going to head another direction with this post and I’ll plan on sharing the rest of my weight loss journey next week. 

When I decided to start writing a blog, I knew that it was going to be raw. I knew it was going to be heavy and it was going to be about things not even those closest to me knew. I worried that I would be judged,misinterpreted, and dismissed. Most importantly, I worried that my family would be hurt and embarrassed. 

 Then, I thought about all the reasons I wanted to do this. I’ve treaded lightly in real life and on social media with talking about my drug abuse, infertility, post partum depression, etc. I put it out there in hopes of someone reading it and discovering that they are not alone and to  possibly give hope to someone. I made the decision to start sharing these  in depth pages in my book, because it doesn’t only have the potential to help someone else, but it helps me too. I’m sharing in hopes of inspiring compassion in others. I’m sharing in hopes of someone reading and maybe becoming more understanding of someone they would generally dismiss.  I’m sharing, because I am not alone. These are things and feelings that so many have to face and we are too ashamed to speak up. I’m sharing, because I haven’t shared in 32 years. 

I did think of the fact that the things I write would be hard for my loved ones to read. Especially my mom(hi mother) and brothers (not that they read, but still), but the thing is that I am writing this blog as a survivor. I have hit the filthy bottom and lived in horrible darkness, but I speak now as someone who has come out on the other side alive and strong. My blog is not meant to inspire sympathy or to hurt. I am sharing a page here and there of my story, but there’s a whole book of pages. Pages filled with good memories, smiling faces, hope, bravery, love, etc. 

6 years ago when I decided to start dealing with my shit, I dealt with the issues we could see. As time has gone by, new issues arise or old memories come up and I’m left to deal with those. I’ve had to go back and reread pages in my book.  I had to hurt, cry, deal, learn, etc., through all my shit that has continued to come up. The things I have and will write about are things I have already faced and learned from. I write my posts in past tense. My life is in a different place now and so am I.  Yes, I continue to struggle with depression and anxiety, but that is something that I  will continue to learn to live with and handle for the rest of my life I’m sure. 

I’ve received quite a few messages and calls about my posts. Family members and friends asking questions and expressing sadness. I love that people are asking questions and wheels are turning. I don’t love the sadness, but I know that comes with it. It is sad. I am sharing sad things. All I can ask if that we don’t get stuck in the sadness and we look at the big picture. All of this brought me to an incredible life. I’ve lived more in the last 6 years than I did the previous 26 years. It’s therapeutic for me to write about my suffering and my success. I truly hope that one person can read any of my blogs and feel that they have a fighting chance. I hope that one person can read and feel a sense of comfort or hope. I hope that one person can read and be kinder to someone. Most importantly I hope that I’m able to get across that this is indeed a successs story I’m sharing. I write to you all as a somewhat level headed adult. I write as a wife, mother, sister, daughter, cousin, niece, or friend. I can’t tell you the honor in being called these things. No matter the darkness I endured, I’m still able to be all these things to everyone. Most importantly I’m able to be myself. 

My Good Thing 

I never imagined I would be alive at 32 years old. I never imagined I would live outside of my early 20’s. It’s a sad way to think and live, but that was my reality. I didn’t have a fear that I was going to die or get killed. I had terrible secrets hidden inside me that had already taken my life. In my mind, I was already dead. 

I lived with those feelings in this dark dark place for years. I painted this picture on the outside of a fun loving funny girl, but secretly I felt incredibly lonely and battered to hell. I had this deep pain that nothing could comfort. That wasn’t the only thing I was hiding. I was also a drug addict. 

I can recall a couple times that I tried to end my pain. I took more and more and begged for it to end. When I would wake up, it wasn’t a sense of relief. It was sadness. I “lived” like this for years. I was dying in front of everyone’s eyes and they had no idea. I’m not sure what happened, but suddenly I was just done. I couldn’t anymore. 

I was clean for a little while and thought, “hey, I’m clean. I’m alright now.” Uh no. That’s not how it works. I still did not know how to cope. I still had horrifying memories and secrets. I also had been doing drugs and living this way for most of my life. I didn’t know any other way to live and cope. I didn’t know how to make peace. I didn’t know how to stop making mistakes. I entered rehab voluntarily and sober in 2011, at the age of 26.  

Is everyone ready for it? Alright ladies and gents, here we go! I remember walking into the room without expectations or a clue about anything. I walked in and saw all these people that were just like me and yet I was terrified. I looked around and there on the couch sat a tall, handsome drink of water. His name was James. I took a seat and that was the end of life as I knew it. Don’t tell James this, but within minutes of meeting him, out of nowhere, my head told me I could marry this man. I want to add that I was the type of girl that never wanted to get married and men were nothing but disposable fun. I was never looking for anyone and I most definitely wasn’t looking to fall in love and get married. Ever. 

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. James and I continued to be friends throughout the process. We would go on walks, talk, deal with anxiety attacks, be silent, cry, etc. We were friends and we fell in love. Love I never knew exsisted. Love I never knew I deserved. Love I never knew I wanted. The kind of love that gives songs meaning. Hard, soul consuming, make you want to throw up kind of love.

I married James, after knowing him for less than a year. We walked down to the courthouse in Oklahoma wearing David Hasselhoff t-shirts and jeans and said, “I do.” There was never reservation or anxiety. I had never been more at peace with anything in my life.

I truly believe that every ounce of pain, sadness, guilt, etc., had led me straight to this very moment. I believe that I was right where I was supposed to be. I believe that I had to go through all this, in order to get to him. I believe that James is my good thing, my unicorn, the climax (interesting choice of word) in my book, my gift, my sign from God, my one big moment. I believe that if the only thing I ever do in this life is show our daughter this great love, it will be enough for me.

I’m not magically fixed. I still suffer from depression and anxiety. I still seek help in more ways than one. I still have my crap, but I am different. I’m clean. I’m hopeful. I cope. I love. I learn. I share my old secrets. I live. I’m ALIVE and I get to figure this whole life thing out with James holding my hand. I couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you God for letting me live.2011

Finding myself at 32

I was around 10 years old and at my brother’s basketball game. I remember being at the very top bleacher. I also remember thinking to myself, “blend in and act like everyone else,” before we all arrived at the gym. So there everyone was cheering, watching the game, acting normal, when the moment that accurately describes me happened. I fell off the top bleacher. Yes, in the middle of an ongoing basketball. Do you know what the sound of chubby 10 year old hitting the gym floor sounds like? The ENTIRE (yes, including the players and referees) gym stopped and looked at me. For those wondering, I was fine. Perhaps it was because I was chubby that I was left undamaged… physically. I still get some anxiety on bleachers. Haha

I’ve always thought of myself to be shy. When I was a young girl, I remember being scared of people and things. I also had three brothers, a busy mom, and a grandma that was pretty rough around the edges that helped take care of us. My first memory is of my father getting mad at me and then never seeing him again.  So most of the times I found myself doing things I didn’t want to do, saying things I didn’t want to say, eating things I didn’t want to eat, etc., because I was too scared to say or do otherwise. I’ve always told myself to blend in, act like everyone else, act normal, don’t attract attention, etc. I’ve continued to tell myself that into my 30’s, until recently that changed for me. 

Recently we attended a birthday party for my friend’s 3 year old daughter. They had great live music, incredible food, family and friends had filled the home, and a piñata. We watched and sang as the kids took turns swinging at the piñata. After all the kids took their swings, a full piñata hung. So adults turns right? “Just blend in, Gabi.  Act like everyone else. Look what the other moms are doing. Play it cool, Gabi,” says my head. It was too late. I was already sprinting to get the stick to hit the piñata. It had rained and was a little misty that night. Well it’s Houston and still warm outside (yes, in January outside in the rain.) So I thought it was a good idea to wear sandals. You all know where I’m going with this. I’ve attached pictures so you get a full effect. Before I started swinging, “blend in me” was acting like Babe Ruth. Circling my bar with my fierce batting stance. Then, it was game time. I swung like I was at the World Series. I felt  everything that moment. Both of my feet lifted off of the ground. I felt my feet moving forward and up. I mean, I caught good solid air. I remember feeling my shirt fly up and my belly jiggle. Bam, I hit the ground. What part of blend in didn’t I understand? 

My whole life I’ve thought I was this shy girl. However, moments like falling off the bleachers and the piñata fall have followed me my entire life. I’m definitely scared of things and people, but I’m most definitely not shy. I’ve told myself to blend in my whole life. I’ve always felt like an outsider looking in. I knew that I was different, but I was scared. Scared to be myself, scared to talk, scared to be left, scared to be unliked, scared of everything. 

That night after a lot of laughter with my husband (who took the pictures and stayed married to me), everything hit me.  I’ve been telling myself to blend in and act like everyone else for decades. Not anymore. I needed to stop lying to myself. 

I’m not scared of being myself anymore. I no longer care if I blend in. I’m not scared  to tell the truth about myself anymore. I’m not scared that people will know I’m not like them. No offense, but I don’t care what anyone thinks about me anymore. I can have an unpopular opinions, fall off bleachers, make bad decisions, get stuck in trees,  babe Ruth the piñata, etc., and it’s me. This is me y’all. I’m a mess. I feel like I’m forever working on my shit. I attract unwanted attention. I’m no longer trying to blend in and I can’t tell you how liberating that is for me.