A Lesson Learned. The Hard Way.

I believe that both my husband and I are decent people who take marriage and commitment seriously.  If there was one thing I had always wanted, it was to become a housewife and stay-at-home mother.  So when my husband told me he wanted to get a divorce in May 2011, citing he no longer had any feelings for me other than as a mother to his child, it felt like my whole world had crumbled down before my very eyes.  Not only were my dreams shattered, it was a huge loss to my sense of self—because for the past decade I had seen and defined myself mainly as a wife and a mother.

In the twelve years that we were together, I was always faithful to him, I never so much as looked at another, spending most of my time at home and being a mother to our daughter.  I did not work, had any career or hobbies that required me to be away from home for a long period of time, and I surrounded myself with friends who were similar in values and lifestyles.  I did not nag; my husband could go out and do things that he liked anytime.  I did not expect him to accompany me all the time, I never snooped around his things, and I did not question his coming and goings. 

I thought I was a pretty darn good wife.  It was almost too easy to blame it all on my husband based on those criteria.  And it was not as if he was a perfect husband either—ugh, far from it.  So what gives?

You know how some people need to slam into a brick wall first before changing their course?   I have always been one of them.  In this case, it had taken the end of my marriage, and then some... After the initial shock and disbelief subsided, when the anger had dissipated into sadness and loss... It was only then that I really saw, I too, was to blame for failing my marriage.

If you go a little deeper into what was my marriage, then you would start noticing the little cracks that ran deeper than they seemed.

Sure, the spontaneity and excitement that was present in the beginning of our relationship had long turned into the more stable, comfortable kind characteristic of old, married couple.  But it was not as if I was unhappy with my life, or wished for another kind of life.  I may not lust after my husband the way I used to, but I liked having him around, and found his presence comforting.  I was fine with not having a career, and I was a proud mother of a lovely daughter. I had simply settled into what I would describe as a ‘comfortable’ relationship.

So ‘comfortable,’ that during the past few years, our relationship as a ‘couple’ has deteriorated to a level where we were more like roommates rather than husband and wife.  We never invested on building a stronger bond outside that of being parents to our daughter since her birth seven years ago.  We got caught up in all those craziness that came from being new parents, and I guess we unconsciously allowed those days to lead into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months into years.  My experience with Postpartum Psychosis shortly after giving birth, and my ongoing battle with depression afterwards took precedent over building our intimacy and connection.  The severity of what happened, along with the medications I must take until now made me very wary of sex.

Our communication was also in shambles.  We did not argue much, but we also did not care much. We started living separate lives, with me focusing solely on my daughter, and him throwing himself into his work, hobbies, and ultimately into the arms of other women.  His transgressions in turn made me distance myself farther in order not to get terribly hurt, drawing a deeper wedge between us.  Over and over again we told each other we wanted to make our relationship worked, but while the scratches were adding up, what we did was just adding more bandages to the wounds without really addressing the core problem.  At the end, there was really nothing holding us together other than the fact we had a child together.

While I have always prided my good sense concerning priorities, it actually took my husband’s ending the marriage to open my eyes and admit that in my list of priorities, I had not put my marriage anywhere close to where it should be—at the top.  Being a loving mother... checked. Making sure my daughter grows up confident and enjoys learning... checked.  Keeping in touch with my good friends... checked. Defying premature aging... checked.  Staying fashionably updated... checked.

But if you asked me, when was the last time my husband and I had a dinner date together?  Blank.

 

I am aware that my husband is no saint.  He has certainly committed his share of faults and mistakes too.  But the point is, I have not done my part of the bargain either.  I have not given my marriage my best, and while I cannot change nor control my husband’s behavior, I have no excuse when it comes to myself.  By not prioritizing my relationship with my husband, I too am guilty of failing my marriage.

Going through a marriage break-up is extremely painful, but it has also been an eye-opening experience for me.  I learned this lesson the hard way, but I truly believe that it is indeed better late than never.  Here’s to a better, wiser, ENOUGH me.

Don't Quit

Some days, no matter how long I stared at the computer screen, or how much I willed my mind to come up with something to write, I just could not do it.  I was never one to write a post quickly; even those that I considered 'spontaneous' were not really that spontaneous if you count the number of times I proofread and deleted 'things.'  I wished I could say that writing came naturally to me, but the reality was that I put a lot of time and efforts into my posts.

As a blogger among many, it could be quite challenging not to compare myself with others.  Of course I desired recognition!  I wished for more people to read and care about my writing!  I longed to make a difference and touched other people's lives with my words!  I heard of others' works being syndicated or published, and I wanted that for myself too!

There were times when I read posts written by other bloggers and honestly thought to myself, "These were crap!  How in hell did they ever get this famous?"    There were also times when I read posts by other bloggers and honestly thought to myself, "Holy sheeit, these would make my writing look like crap!  How in hell would I ever get famous?"  

You see, whichever way I saw it, I would end up feeling crappy and shitty.  Mostly about myself.  And before long, about life in general.  Predictably, it pretty much went downhill from there.

I have no other wisdom to spare but to repeat what others before me have said: "Remember why you started your blog in the first place."  This piece of advice might seem cliche, but I could not stress its importance enough.  I started mine because I love to write, and because I could communicate my feelings through written words better than verbally.  That was it.  No other agendas.  

Yet time and time again, I found myself worrying over things that have little to do with why I started my blog.  And when I did that, it robbed me of everything that was fun and pleasurable about writing.  Having a blog started to become a burden, filled with self-imposed deadlines and obligations.  Yeah, it felt like homework.  And who the heck on earth liked homework?

Sure, Sweaty, it's easy for you to say this because you have x number of followers, etc. etc....  Hey, I knew for a fact (believe me, I know) that there were other bloggers who started around the same time as me, who were now enjoying a much bigger audience and fame.  I have been blogging for close to nine months now, written over 190 posts, and not one has ever been syndicated (you're reading this, people in BlogHer?).  I have only written two guest posts so far, and to my knowledge, have none scheduled in the near horizon.  

Sure, Sweaty, you're a loser, so why should anybody listen to you?  Well, other than  I'm trying to save your arse from self-inflicted pain and agony (said in such a way, it really puts you in perspective, doesn't it?), it's because I have seen many talented, funny, interesting bloggers called it quit because of sentiments I mentioned above.  The same sentiments that plagued me and made me want to quit from time to time.  And I hated to see all those potential gone to waste. 

If  with this post, I could just persuade one blogger NOT to quit, I would feel like I have done my job.  Staring at the computer with a blank mind is alright and normal.  Go take a break from your blog and come back another day.  You have posts that you think were brilliant but had no comments?  So do I!  Don't judge yourself based on that, because not all of blogging is about brilliance in writing.  Trust me.  A lot of times it is more about your networking and the people whom you know.  Perseverance goes a long way.  Keep on writing, even if you think it is nothing but verbal diarrhea and word vomit.  What you consider as shit could very well be an inspiration for others (no kidding!). 

Always remind yourself why you started writing in the beginning.  That is your passion; do not let all the embellishments of blogging deviate you from that.  

In other words, just be you.

A Seasoned Woman

I am a woman seasoned in love and heartbreaks.

I have had my share of admiring glances, overblown flattery, and love letters...

Of lingering phone calls, ostentatious bouquets, and gallant offers to take me home.

I know how it feels like to have my heart picked up its beat simply from setting sight on a beloved face.

To have electric currents running through my veins as the result of a single touch or close proximity.

To pass the day counting the hours and minutes until the next encounter.

I have tasted the pleasure of lovemaking... the tangling of two bodies in salty sweat and sweet caress.

Connected in a perfect fit where throbbing pain and ardent pleasure became one and the same. 

Taking turns to arouse, entice, and satisfy.

I am no stranger to griefs and heartaches...

Depression, regrets, and disappointments have left their marks on my mind.

My heart bears scars from loves lost, promises forgotten, and dreams that shattered. 

I am a woman seasoned in love and heartbreaks.

Who has witnessed her parents' divorce and is now staring at the end of her marriage.

Yet still believes in happy endings, prince charming, and a life well-lived.

Linking Up with

and

To My Sisters

Last Friday Ms. Mouthy and I were invited to our friend Eliza’s party.  She got divorced a few months back, and wanted to have a girls-night-out to celebrate her birthday.  The party was held at this hip restaurant/bar that was turned into a ‘club’ for the night due to a special appearance by a famous singer.  By the time we arrived, the place was packed, the lights were dimmed, and the music was loud.

After wishing her a happy birthday, Eliza introduced us to the other guests on her table; some of them I have met before.  I smiled, nodded my head, greeted them by waving my hands back.  Then I took a seat next to Ms. Mouthy, with my back on the wall, sensing that my mind was already retreating somewhere else, my body fusing into the chair as if trying to be invisible.  Typical me.

Eliza started going out more when her marriage ended, so I was not surprised she had friends from different circles, most of them were either divorced or not married yet.  I noticed something common shared by Eliza and friends that was apparent post their divorce: dressing up in more revealing clothes, wearing more make-up, and definitely practiced more flirting.  This change was obvious enough for me to pause, blink twice, and question whether they were the same people as before. 

Who took care of their children at home when they were out all night partying most weekends (and perhaps weekdays too)?  Why did women feel the need to look like skanks upon being single again... to prove they were still desirable?  Instantly, my reaction was to judge them as "trying too hard" or "desperate."  

I realized then that subconsciously, I might have looked down on anybody who did not fit into the ‘perfect housewife’ images I had in mind, because in some ways, I used to feel superior before.  Not in a way that I felt prettier or more successful, but it was more of seeing myself as having better morals and respectability.  I used to judge other women who, even after they were married and became mothers, still flirted, did a lot of clubbing, or wore too-sexy clothes.  I used to have this mental picture of how a married woman and a mother should look like and behave. 

But then who was I to judge?  Who said that the way I was moping around at home, my reluctance to change the way I looked or dressed, my being at home every night when my daughter went to sleep... was better?   As I sat there, taking mental notes of my surroundings, I contemplated my own situation... of my own marriage ending and the impending divorce.

Perhaps Eliza and her friends simply became more efficient in managing their time?  Maybe having fun, partying like there was no tomorrow was a better alternative to feeling lonely at home?  Chances were, those tight, sexy dresses were a good motivation to exercise, one that would finally made me commit to the healthy diet that I have been wanting to do for the last seven years but kept on postponing... Putting on more make-up would most likely force me to pay attention to my skin and start wearing at least a night cream!  And surely, flirting with other guys, holding their attention even for just a few short minutes, seeing desires in their eyes, would do wonders to my current all-time low self-esteem?

Two-and-a half hours later, I had just about enough of the ‘dootz dootz dootz’ music.  My tummy was grumbling, clearly pissed off from having been fed the tiny-portioned dinner served earlier.  My eyes were tearing up, my nostrils were burning from all that second-hand smoking (thanks to all the smoking that took place all around me).  I was eager to call it a night, and luckily Eliza was intoxicated enough this time to let me go home.   

That night, on the ride home, I sat quietly on the back seat of the car.  The digital clock on the dashboard beamed, reminding me that I was not yet home despite the late hour.  I thought about Eliza and her friends again.  About how I used to judge women who looked like them and live their kind of lifestyle.  About how my own life was turned upside down by the death of my marriage, not too different from theirs—I’m sure--when their marriages ended.

Divorce is devastating.  The resulting heartbreak and pain could feel unbearable at times.  But different people dealt with their pain differently.  I’m not here to condone one way of coping over the other.  Clearly, I disagree with coping methods that are potentially hazardous, for example, turning to drugs or alcohols.  But going through my own divorce has opened my eyes and heart to others going through the same experience.  To a degree, I now understand why there were women—like Eliza and her friends—who partied every weekend, dressed-up in sexy clothes, and flirted with different guys after their divorce.  If they felt empowered by doing what they did, and if it could lessen the pain, then good for them!  Some of them did look better anyways (skank factor aside ;) as the result.  You go, girl!

As for me, I still prefer the quietness of my room, the familiar smell of my house, and the comfort of my PJs.  I still think that being home every night when my daughter goes to sleep is one of the best way to spend my nights.  I am not ready to flirt with other men because my heart still belongs to someone.  But that’s alright.  To each her own. 

To all of my sisters out there dealing with divorce or its aftermath... Do what you need to do.  Don’t let others opinions and judgements slow you down.  Be strong, and come out a winner!

Linking up with:

A State of Inertia

I blinked.  The room was dark despite the opened curtains.  I must have slept far longer than I thought.

I reveled in those fleeting minutes of peacefulness.  My mind was in that blissful state, where awareness had not yet caught up with the numbness that lingered after a deep slumber.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  In that stillness I could hear...

My heart beating... thump, thump, thump...

The clock's second hand making its endless round... tick, tick, tick...

The air rustling my pillow sheet as I breathed in and out... in, out...

The muffled sounds coming from the television downstairs... news, I think...

I opened my eyes, my mind growing more alert with each passing second.  Back to reality, to grappling with the loss of my other half.  Whose voice and presence around the house I missed the most, yet nowhere to be found.

My daughter's laughter from somewhere in the house.  Just as faint and muted as the others, but one that was more audible to my ears than all the rest.  A music to my ears.  A reminder that some things in life were worth living for.

And then there were others that were not and would be better left behind.

I knew this was only the beginning.  I have not even begun to grieve, let alone heal.  My days of mourning the death of my marriage were far from over.  But for that few seconds, when stupor still reigned over consciousness,  I let myself float...  To stop fighting the inevitable.  To simply live in the moment. 

To just be.  

Me, Interrupted (Being Enough Me)

Shortly after I gave birth to my daughter, I was diagnosed with Postpartum Psychosis.  I was prescribed a high dosage of Zoloft and Xanax, which helped tremendously.  

Initially, the intention was to wean me off the medications once my condition improved.  Combined with regular visits to my psychiatrist, the dosage was slowly reduced, with the hope that one day I was able to function without them.  

Today, almost seven years after my daughter was born, I still have to take Zoloft and Xanax.  It seemed likely that I would have to take them for the rest of my life, although in lower dosages than in the beginning.  The few times that the doctor tried to lower the dosages past a certain amount, I had difficulties controlling my depression and anxiety.  My obsessive compulsive tendency would be more pronounced, and I would worry endlessly and had panic attacks.

About five years ago, I started to have a serious problem with insomnia.  I wasn't able to sleep even when I was physically and mentally exhausted.  There were days when I would sleep for a total of one or two hours only.  It got so bad that my psychiatrist prescribed me Stillnox to help me sleep.  However, it turned out to be ineffective on me, so I had to take Seroquel instead.  Seroquel is a strong anti-psychotic, often used as a sedative for schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

It was difficult to explain how disheartening it felt every time the doctor had to increase the dosage or add another medication to what I had been taking.  I felt hopeless, powerless, and impotent.  It felt like doom and condemnation.  It made me feel like I was a lesser human being than the rest; one that was incapable of living and functioning without the aid of those medications.

Without going too much into the specifics of why or which events triggered a relapse or necessitated an increase in dosage/types of medications, it was always devastating to learn that I was in fact dependent on those medications in order to function normally.  There was no way around it.  Moreover, living with those medications meant living with their side-effects too.  A fact that until now, many of those around me overlooked, even when they knew that I was taking medications.  

Especially for those, who like me, have been taking medications for long periods of time, the side-effects have become such a part of life that often times, even the people around us had such a hard time differentiating which one was the real us vs. the us influenced by the side-effects of these medications.  For example, sluggishness, increased appetite, tiredness, tremors, decreased sexual desires, all of which I have experienced.  Because I have been taking those medications for years, the above side-effects were now perceived as part of my personality not only by those around me, but also by myself sometimes.  They have affected my life as a whole--in the courses of action and decisions I took, in how I reacted to others.

At times when I took the time to pause and contemplate however, I realized that the real me (without the meds) and the one with the medications, may not be the same.  

Knowing that I must take those medications for the rest of my life, however, meant I have to accept this 'new' version of me--the good and the bad.  And to be at peace with the high probability that 'it' was here to stay.  I have to stop resenting the fact that I wasn't able to get off these medications; instead, I should try to make the best out of the situation.  I must focus on the positive things that's in my life now: that I can function normally as opposed to being clinically depressed and highly anxious at all times.  I must come into terms with those side-effects being a part of the real me without losing sight of who I was before the medications.

Sounds complicated?  That's because it IS.  I'm aware that it would not be an easy task.  It would involve not only accepting who I am as a person, but also as a person who needs to take medications for the rest of my life.  Who has to deal with the consequences of taking those medications.  To accept that as long as the good outweighs the bad, I should be thankful and move forward.  To not judge myself too harshly when I felt that I was behaving under the influence of the medications.  To not feel like a failure for having to take medications in order to function normally.  I know that it will not be an easy ride; there will be bumps along the way.  There would be struggles, internally with myself and externally with others, especially those who are closest to me.

But let this awareness be a start.  The acceptance be the next step.  Balance being the ultimate goal.  And right now?  To just be enough.

I AM enough.     

Be Enough Me: No Regrets

I often asked myself, whether as a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a friend I have done 'enough.'  That if I were to die right this minute, could I genuinely say to myself, that I am 'enough'?

After all, I am human.  There are many mistakes I wish I could undo, many choices I wish I hadn't made, many decisions I wish I could do otherwise.  I also wish there were many more lives I could have changed for the better, many more kindness I could have shown, many more lost souls I could have given my shoulder to cry on to.

It's always easier to focus on the negative: on what I haven't accomplished, or on how I fare when compared to others in a similar role.  I'm aware of daughters who have managed to support their parents so that they could go into early retirements.  Or those who lovingly attended to the needs of their aging parents.  Some of my friends, even after a hard day at work, still made the time to cook their husbands' favorite dish or serve them sliced fruits.  I know of wives who could keep a clean house, be on top of the children's homework and school projects, and still hosted the most amazing dinners for their husbands' friends at home.

There are mothers who despite having three or four kids, are actively involved in every single one of their children's activities, have killer bodies because they were disciplined enough to fit in some exercise time, and do not have raccoon eyes the next day because they manage their time so well that they could still have eight-hour sleep and wake up refreshed at 5:30am every day.  I have friends who would go to lengths (e.g. fly across the ocean to visit me when I was down, for example) and gave it all they could for a friend in need.  

I have not done all of the above.  At least not to that extent.  So does that mean I'm a 'less-than-enough' daughter/wife/mother/friend?  Lets face it.  In the face of all those greatness, how could I not feel small?  Insignificant?  Not to mention guilty for not being able to do what others could.  These are the things you can't tell yourself, "Oh, they're impossible," because the proofs are there for my eyes to see.  I've seen people do all of those great things.  They are not impossible.

And yet they remain impossible to me.

How many times have I, upon seeing what others have accomplished, been inspired and forced myself to do something similar because until I succeed in doing the same things, I felt that I haven't tried or done 'enough.'  I pushed myself harder and harder, to accomplish more, to give more, to do more, to be more.  And when I later ended up unable to reach the goals I've set up for myself, I became frustrated, angry with myself, disappointed, and deemed myself as not good enough.

And it usually led to the conclusion that I am a bad daughter, a bad wife, a bad mother, and a bad friend. 

The past five months, however, had changed the way I see and value myself.. I found that:

I am emotionally stronger than I thought.

I am surprisingly resilient.

I am capable of forgiving others who had wronged me.

I love unconditionally.

I care deeply.

I can find things to be happy about even during sad times.

I am doing the best I can.

I have my strengths as well as my weaknesses, and my weakness doesn't make me a bad person.

I am a good person.

I am enough.

Should I die tomorrow, I have no regrets.  Yes, there are still so many things I wish I could give or do for my mother, but above all, my wish was for my mother to feel that she's loved by her daughter.  I think I've accomplished that.  My marriage is in shambles, and should it end in divorce, God knows that it was never for the lack of love and faithfulness on my side.  When it comes to being a parent, I have nothing to complain about.  My daughter is kind, loving, independent, and wise beyond her years.  I'd like to think that I have some part in that :)  The friends that I have, I wouldn't trade them for anything.  They are the most loyal, caring, supportive group of people I could surround myself with.  And I think they know that the same goes with me.  That I'm here for them whenever they need me.  

I am enough.

This is our very last week to make an impact for Be Enough Me 4 Cancer. Last week we had 45 people link up an enough-themed post in our Be Enough Me for Cancer campaign and I’d love it if you’d help us boost that number again. For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Cricketts Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day.  The link-up remains open for three days. No blog? No worries. You can also comment on the post or on the Just Be Enough Facebook Page page with your own story and be counted.

Being Just Enough Me

Many people used to tell me, how lucky I was to be an only child.  They had this perception that my parents would undoubtedly spoil me to death, that I would get whatever I wanted, and that I would never have to share what I own with any siblings.

They couldn't be more wrong.

Being the only child meant that all of my parents' expectations lay on my shoulder.  Not wanting me to repeat their mistakes, my parents would forever be feeding me with strings of advices and warnings.  I was always walking on eggshells; the littlest mistake and my parents would obsess and fuss over it.  Every single thing I did, every behavior I exhibited, was scrutinized and presumed to have some significance on my character.

To compensate for whatever they lacked during their own childhood, my parents tried to give me what they couldn't have.  But in the effort to do so, they forgot that I had a voice.  Forget about choices; it my parents thought it was the best, then it must be the best.  From having to learn things sooner than everybody else (like, learning how to type properly when I was 10, at a time when computers weren't a common household object) to choosing schools and majors (hence double-majoring at economics and psychology, instead of pursuing my love for writing).  

While many of the above were common among parents (who doesn't want to give their children the best, right?), being the only child meant everything was super-concentrated on me.  My parents thought they couldn't afford to make any mistakes; everything was either now or never.  They didn't have any other children, so if I turned out to be a failure, that was it, it was a one-time deal.  Just as there were no other children they could be more proud of, it also meant there were no other children who would disappoint them more than I did.  

That was a heavy burden to carry on one little shoulder.

When I was three years old, my parents got divorced.  I always wondered how they ever got together in the first place (they dated for 8 years before they got married), because there couldn't have been more different people than my mother and my father.  [Un]fortunately for me, this translated to a huge gap in the way they thought they should raise me.  What was 'right' at my father's house, may not be right at my mother's, and so forth.  From early on, it was like I had two sets of paradigm that I had to maintain in order to be able to please both my father and my mother.  Which I must say was very, very difficult, given how much they hated each other at the end.

Looking back, it was no surprise that I grew up feeling like I should always be the best in every single thing that I did.  If I were to view myself as any less, I would beat myself over it, never satisfied until I could convince myself that indeed I was the best.  I took everything so personally, one slight frown from others would result in weeks of ruminating what I did wrong.  There was no grey--everything was either black or white.  There was no such thing as mediocre in my dictionary--either you made it or you didn't.  Either you succeeded or you're a failure.  

But to live life always feeling like I had to prove I was the best (to myself, to my parents, to others) was not only exhausting, it was impossible.  Instead of enjoying and living life to its fullest, I was too busy being disappointed at myself at every turn.  It was already difficult when it was just me; throw in a husband and a child to the equation, and it was a recipe for disaster.  

When it was just me, at least I was in full control of myself, which meant I also had a measure of control over any possible outcome.  But we all knew that when it came to other people, there was no way I could control how they act, feel, and react.  I was at a loss when it came to dealing with my marriage and being a first-time parent.  

Growing up being an only-child, I was not used to disappointments.  If I tried hard enough, I would get it.  It was a simple as that.  There were no siblings to introduce unpredictability into the mixture, to mess up my plans, or to take into consideration when making decisions.  And we all know that in a marriage and parenthood, there are plenty of that.  It felt like my whole world was turned upside-down.  All the strict guidelines, the standards, the self-inflicted rules I had lived by didn't work when it came to my husband and later, my child.  I was a control-freak who just realized that there was nothing I could control.  In other words, I was a train-wreck waiting to happen. 

Today, I have been together with my husband for twelve years, a mother for the past seven years.  My marriage is in trouble, my husband wanted a divorce, and my little girl is growing up a lot faster than I would like her to be.  I have never felt more lost in control than I am right now.  Tell me ten years ago that this would happen to me, and I'd probably be on my way to the nearest mental facility already.  Yet, despite the worst possible case scenarios that are going on in my life right now, I can safely say that:

• I am not wasting away in some dark corner growing a beard.
• I am not going crazy or on my way to any mental facility near or far.
• I haven't hired any PI to follow my midlife-crazed husband around (or put any dangerous substance into his drinks)
• I still eat more than I should.
• I still laugh a lot on a daily basis.
• I still enjoy doing things that I like (blogging, talking to my friends, watching dvds at home, reading books).
• I'm still a bag-addict.
• I think I'm a good daughter and a better-than-good mother.
• I'm not a perfect wife, and I'm ok with that.
• I make mistakes, but I'll do better next time.
• I am alive.

It took a lot of tears and efforts to get to where I am today.  I'm not blaming being an only-child as the sole reason for every failure, disappointment, or mishap I've ever gotten into.  But I do know that it played a big role in how I perceive myself, others, and life in general.  When I became a wife, and then a parent, I realized that my way of thinking, the remnants of my childhood as an only-child, came back to haunt me.  It had, and as in the case of my marriage, still does, caused a lot of heartache for myself and for the people I love.

One thing I know for sure though, is that life goes on, and it waits for no one.  That at the end, it all comes down to how I WANT to live my life--not what my parents, my control-freak mind, my husband, my daughter, my friends, or the society tells me what I should want.  I've learned to be alright with being mediocre, with being average, with being content and happy just being myself.  I had to learn of my weaknesses the hard way, but it also made me a much more humble person, much more forgiving of myself and others.

I've accepted that there are some things I could change, but there are also others I could not--no matter how hard I try.  Until that day comes, when I would close my eyes for the last time, nothing is as 'life or death' situation as it seems to be.

Until then, I'm happy being Just Enough Me.    

This post is written as part of Be Enough Me for Cancer campaign and I’d love it if you’d help us boost that number again.  For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day.  You can also comment on the post or on the Just.Be.Enough. Facebook page with your own story and be counted.  The link up opens up every Monday and remains open for three days.