Power of She 2015 -- Growth

I am going to print this out and hang it above my bed.
Maybe then, when I have feelings of being a blobfish,
I can see I am a mermaid instead. 

Since the last Power of She shoot, I have been eagerly awaiting for this year's session. This project means a *lot* to me. It means more than I can ever hope to express.  While I have shied away from sharing the results of the shot on my personal FB page to avoid the backlash I received from my own mother, I have received an immense amount of support from those who have seen it.

I am also pretty sure people will look at the shots and go with the usual crap I have heard a thousand times before:

*You have such a pretty face, if you'd only lose some weight...
* Aren't you worried about your health?
* You are a disgusting pig!
* Hah, she looks like a whale!
* Gross, take her away. I don't want to see that shit!


That's fine. I am completely aware that body size aside, I am not everybody's cup of tea. I am too loud. I am obnoxious. Too opinionated. I swear like a motherfucking sailor. I have a vulgar mouth and so much sex on the brain my friends are quite used to my taking a simple comment extremely out of context in genuine confusion. I have a pretty strong belief system in both politics and religion. I am too stubborn 'for my own good' as someone once told me -- and contrary to her firm belief, I found love, got married and have a partner who is my equal.

My fatness is simply exterior decoration. If a person cannot get past my dimples and rolls, they are not worth my time.

A close friend of mine asked me if I had bee nervous during the shoot. I honestly responded that since this wasn't the first time I had posed for the project, nervousness was not an issue. At least until the train chugged on by and then all I could really do was wave. I mean, where the hell was I supposed to hide? There was *nothing* to hide behind out there, except another naked woman.

Our conversation carried on and he asked me a question I found myself in awe of.

"What does your husband think?"

I suppose that is the same question a certain family member had intended to ask but instead took a very big chunk out of their foot last year. Honestly, I am not sure on that front-- for my mental sake, I hope that was the reason behind the explosion of 2014. As far as my friend goes, he  was genuine in his question.

What does Manthing think? He encourages me to do continue with Power of She. He finds the images tasteful. He finds me beautiful... and he hopes that some day, I can see me the same way he sees me.

This project has been a turning point in my life.

Last year's shot took place a few weeks after I had a total meltdown. He burst into the room after he heard me fall and found me collapsed on the floor in front of the mirrored closet door, one leg in my pants the other sprawled out before me. My face was scrunched up in a silent scream, my hands fisted at my side as I fought back the urge to break the mirror. Break my face. Cut up my body. He thought I had fallen and hurt myself.

The truth? I couldn't stand looking at myself.

"I am a fridge." I recalled crying out as I buried my face in his shoulder. He held me for I don't know how long. He rocked me as I sobbed and he kissed my tears dry.

Eventually we laughed a little at how ridiculous I had been, but he did say something that has stuck by me until this very day: "It is a sad truth to know that the woman I adore and find so beautiful thinks of herself so horribly that she no longer identifies as a living creature. She is an inanimate object in her mind."

All the words people will say and have said about my body, I have said worse.  Of all the hate I can potentially get for daring to pose nude for Power of She, I have done worse.  I have bruised myself on purpose. Scarred myself out of frustration. Starved myself because I hated my body. I have done so much to my body that I am lucky to be alive. 

When I saw the end result of 2014, I was confused. I found the pictures pretty but I could not understand why people kept telling me I was 'brave' or 'inspiring' or whatever positive adverb you can throw at me for doing so. I was hurt when I was shamed by people I thought had understood my struggles with self acceptance.

Here I am a full year later and I think, maybe, that I am starting to understand.

It has been a long hard road away from the bedroom floor of my old apartment to the sandy beach where I posed this year. It has been filled with self-loathing , frustration, tears, blood and anxiety. There have been days where I have been content to lay in bed for more than twenty hours, sobbing quietly.

Power of She is not a magic cure. It is a form of self awareness and self acceptance. It is an inspiration for others like me who suffer with self-loathing to learn to love themselves again.

This body, big as it is, full of scars, bruises, dimples, rolls and topped with saggy boobs is mine. This is the same body that takes me for walks at the beach and that my husband reaches out to in his sleep. I am still not happy with this body. I sometimes feel the weight of my breasts tug me down because it hurts to sit upright with or without a bra. Summer nights are insufferable as sweat gathers in places I rather not existed. When I have the energy for it to work out, my knees give out. My elbow aches, my wrists in constant pain from day-to-day tasks but know something?

This is my body. This is the only body I will ever have and it is about damn time that I start loving it as it is, rolls and all. I am tired of hating me as I am and hoping that if I hit the magic number on a scale a switch will be flipped in my head and I'll finally love my body.

I doubt I will ever be the skinny girl certain people wish me to be and that is fine. All I ever wanted was to see what people see when they call me beautiful.

And I think I just caught a glimpse of her in these photos.

They truly are my heroes. 

My Sisters, the Dames! 

Mission accomplished, babe.
I don't give up because you're in my corner.

I don't need Feminism

The movement is misunderstood, skewed, vilified and looked down upon by a lot of people today. I keep hearing the words 'I don't need feminism' more so today than yesterday. When I label myself a feminist, folk have  knee-jerk reaction and quickly lump me into the category that my husband has lovingly referred to as 'feminazi'. I get accused of misandry by a few and others accuse me of setting back the movement. I get categorized as a traitor because I happen to enjoy video games and don't get bothered by scantily clad characters (I am looking at you Sarkeesian).

There is just no pleasing anybody these days, really. Damned if I decide to put on make up and wear a dress, damned if I decide to wear pants and not bother beating my face. If I choose to stay at home and raise my kids I am antiquated and if I chose to be a career woman I'm denouncing my femininity.

It was not too long ago when women didn't have a choice in the matter. We had to stay home, clean the house, rear the children and have sex with our husband whenever he wanted to. For easy math, allow me to mention that it was not until 1984 in the case of People vs. Liberta  Judge Sol Wachtler stated "a marriage license should not be viewed as a license for a husband to forcibly rape his wife with impunity. A married woman has the same right to control her own body as does an unmarried woman." I  was born in 1984. That was 31 years ago.

It was not until in 1993 that the concept of marital rape exemptions became judicially declared unconstitutional.

In 1993, I was in 3rd grade.

Hell, it was not until 2013 that the state of Washington finally got rid of its own exemption to third degree marital rape. That was two years ago.

In 5th grade (That is 1995 for those of you keeping track of the math), I remember sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the classroom as Mr. H read the newspaper to us. I don't recall which case we were following that year but I do remember how he pointedly paused reading, closed the newspaper on his lap and asked us if a woman was at fault to be harassed, molested and raped because of the clothes that she wore. Granted, the question was a little unfair. While the majority of us had already gone through the sexual education class the concept of rape was somewhat foreign.

We sat in silence, confused. He asked us again if it was okay to blame Little Susie if she got robbed because of a watch she wore. "No!" we answered in unison.

Was it okay to blame Little Johnny to get drugged and beaten up because of the pair of pants? "No!" we answered yet again.

So why was it okay for someone to blame the woman if she was sexually harassed because of what she wore? How was she asking to be touched in ways that she didn't want to be touched because she was at a night club dancing with her boyfriend?

It wasn't and it isn't.

Yet, we still do it.

If I choose to have an abortion, regardless of the reason, it is mine to make. If I decide to stay at home and be a house wife, that is my choice. If I chose to be a career woman and follow my dreams of opening up a restaurant, a photo studio or a write dozens of books, that is my prerogative.   And sometimes, I like to, as the lovely queens I follow on youtube like to say, beat my face with make up, don some pearls then sit down to play Borderlands and enjoy the view of my siren's ass while I pretend to be as hot as her.

We like to talk about how we're abusing the rights our soldiers have fought for us to have. We like to discuss on how freedom in this country is taken for granted when so many, ironically, men and women have died to ensure. Every memorial day and labor day we talk about these things but we are quick to forget that both sexes have fought for women's equality. Thanks to Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady, James Mott and Federick Douglas we can vote along with our men. Thanks to Jane Roe's case and the male Supreme Court Justices who weighed in on the matter, I can end an unwanted pregnancy if I choose to. Because of women like Winifred C. Stanley who fought long and hard in 1942 to that by 1963, John F. Kennedy could finally pass the Equal Pay Act.

An example of misandry

Any time I hear a woman say that we do not need feminism spits on the work of those men and women who have fought against status quo to make things better for all of us. Any time I hear about a woman who laments that there are not enough empowering female figures, that women should not be objectified and then turns around to do the exact same thing to a man, she steps on the metaphorical flag of equality.

Not all men believe that women belong in the kitchen or should put out for their husbands no questions asked. My husband certainly does not. Neither does my father. Mr. H certainly didn't. Any woman who paints all men with the same broad brush she accuses a man of painting womankind with, is not a feminist. She's a misandrist. Any woman who claims to not need feminism because she defines herself and derives her own values and that there is no war against her is confused. Why? Because women are treated like second class citizens all over the world.

fem·i·nism

ˈfeməˌnizəm

noun

1. the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

Feminism is about equality among the genders. Women deserve the same pay as men for the same amount of work that we do. And by that same token, men deserve to have paid time for paternal leave.

And if you're still a little confused about what I'm trying to say, let me share with you a little idiom I know: What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

What's good for mankind is good for womankind.

Silence is Golden

I have heard the phrase many times, read the lyrics to the song and have often mulled the meaning of the proverb frequently. I know that 'silence is golden' is a saying meant to instill cautiousness and tact in situations where, perhaps, not saying or doing anything at all would be the best course of action. Oftentimes, though, the meaning of these three little words gets twisted.

I was bullied a lot as a kid. Anyone could say anything to my face, I'd take it with a smile. Sometimes I'd deliver a few zingers, then laugh it off. But when it really got rough, I could feel my hands shake and my body vibrate with rage. Sometimes I was pushed and shoved but still, I wouldn't do anything. Growing up, I had been the tallest in my class, the most developed and the few times I *had* lashed out, I got in trouble. I had been indoctrinated to never raised my hand even in self defense because I could hurt someone badly. I was to turn the other cheek, keep my mouth shut and ignore the situation at hand when humor failed me. At times like these, I'd latch onto my pride and force a smile on my face even though my eyes were burning. I always took the high road.

It was sophomore year and a Friday. I hated Fridays. Fridays meant I had to wear my pep uniform and deal with the attention that got me. The year before I had wondered about in a suicidal daze that no one noticed except the girl who conned me into trying out for the color guard team.

I hated my body, I hated my life and while I had begun to make friends and learned to smile more, I was not out of the woods yet.

I have always been a curvy girl. By the time I was in 6th grade, I had grown to be a size 38C. The summer of 8th grade I'd gone up to a DDD status. I had tried to hide myself as best as I could because I couldn't handle the cat calling, the staring, the gossiping of girls, the slut shaming,  nor the strangers following me at a slow pace in their car while I went to and from school. I had also been molested by a family 'acquaintance' for several years and I was not prepared to show my body.

I was not prepared to accept myself, really. I had a war going on inside me-- am I girl or am I a boy and why does it matter? All the attention I got served the purpose to confuse me even further.

Gone were the days where I wore over sized t-shirts and jeans, my hair a mess in a loose braid and face bare. As a member of the color guard team I had to wear our uniforms and boy, where they revealing. I also had to style my hair and do my make up.


Because it was Friday, I was, once again, donning our pep uniform and my biggest nemesis: short skirt, tight turtleneck and the form-hugging top over it. My face was carefully done the way our coach had demanded and my hair pulled in a pony tail so tight it gave me a headache. I could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface as I forced a smile on my face. See, the bell had rung and I had to get to class. Since I had stayed behind to speak to my previous teacher, I didn't have the time to take the long way to my next class. I *had* to go through the main hallway, past a certain teacher's class and deal with... that.

"Big tits!"

It has been over a decade since I graduated high school and I can still hear his voice. I can still see that shit-eating grin on his pale face and that sorry, miserable excuse of a fucking haircut that made him look like some sort of albino porcupine. I hated the son of a bitch. He was a year younger than me but he'd been harassing me since I was in fourth grade. He liked to sneak up on me and snap my bra strap. He called me names. He constantly asked that I go meet him behind the bleachers and put my mouth to good use. I got no respite from the asshole even in the summer because we went to the same boys and girls club. I had complained about his behavior countless of times but I always got the same response: Boys will be boys. Maybe I should wear something less revealing and make it clear I am not interested. (Because you know, a loose turtle neck and overalls are *sooo* revealing, and nothing said 'come here big boy, I want to blow you!' like shoving a boy from his bike when he rides circles around you trying to cop a feel.)

I fixed my eyes on the opposite and pretended not to hear.

The year before had been miserable, yes, but I had at least not dealt with *him*.

"I'm talking to you."

He flicked my skirt. I ignored it. I tried to walk faster but was impeded by the sea of bodies coming in the opposite direction. He could lift my skirt all he wanted, I thought, after all, I was wearing the uniform bloomers to cover my modesty.

"Hey Chink, tell Big Tits I'm talking to her!" He was now addressing my best friend.

"Ignore him," I pleaded and shoved her ahead of me, desperate not to get her caught in the crossfire again.

He'd gotten taller since I saw him last, but no more well behaved. In fact, he'd grown more bold.

"Are you still mad about the tennis cage? It was just a joke!" Yeah.. a very funny joke, where he had shoved a stick on the handles of the door and kept us from leaving. The whole time he and his stupid buddies had ridden their bikes in circles around the cage throwing water balloons at us. All because I'd been wearing a white shirt and he wanted to know 'what kind of bra supports those tits.'  It happened in broad daylight, my best friend had crumbled into tears, yelling for help and no one came. People had actively chosen to not say anything.

I pressed on and I felt the snap of my bra. I faltered as I fought back the urge to slap him. And then it happened; I felt myself be pulled halfway around and a hand shoved into my breast. I shoved him against the lockers, hard and while he laughed, I slapped him.

The bell rung but instead of clearing out, people had gathered to see what happened due to the commotion. I heard a yell from one of the teachers and slowly the crowd dispersed. She pulled us into her classroom.

He tried telling her that I slapped him for no good reason. I bit my lip and kept my mouth shut. No point in making things worse by opening my mouth, right? Silence is golden! Take the high road! Do not make things worse by giving him further attention! If I could have just kept myself in control than maybe, just maybe, he would have gone away. But no, I'd slapped him... He'd only retaliate even more now.

"He called her Big Tits and groped her." I looked up. I didn't know the girl, it was my first time laying eyes on her. "Its not the first time either. I've seen him follow her a few times but never said anything. I mean, I figured he'd just stop if she continued to ignore him like always."

The older woman looked at us with her steely gaze, her lips pulled into a tight line. She put her hand on her hip and turned her attention to the boy. "Is this true?"

He reiterated that I had slapped him.

I focused my gaze on my sneakers. They were covered in dirt. I should wash them before I got in trouble for being out of uniform. I felt her eyes on me. I wanted to cry. I felt so ashamed.

She pulled me into a hug and said my silence said it all. She went on to say that victims of bullying tend to keep their mouths shut because we're often told its best to ignore them. She said that Silence is garbage and it yields our power to our attackers.

Before she sent me on my way, she turned to the boy and told him that in no shape or form was his behavior appropriate. He was lucky, she said, that she didn't call the police on him right then and there because his behavior had escalated from sexual harassment to abuse the moment he laid a hand on me. If he wasn't scared of going to juvi for sexual misconduct he should very well be afraid of what would happen if he had touched the wrong woman. Some men don't like it when their girls are mistreated and can enact vengeance or worse... the victim may snap and retaliate in a way he never expected. Either way, he was not only ruining the life of a victim but his own as well.

From then on, he avoided me. I never caught the girl's name, nor would I have been able to recognize her anyway. I am thankful for her interception in the matter,  but most of all, I am thankful for that teacher's lecture; Silence is Garbage.

Nowadays, I'm not so quiet anymore.

Kintsugi

Growing up, Mom told me a story using a vase as an example for a relationship. She went on to say that sometimes, relationships are broken and can be mended but eventually they get irreparably damaged and I should be mindful of my actions.

Over the years I have seen how this is true, chiefly in the relationship with myself. I have always said that I am my biggest enemy; I am my worst detractor; I am my worst friend. I often most set myself up for failure because some part of me is afraid of success. As I have mentioned before I tend to live my life in fear of one thing or another, usually without me knowing.

The last few weeks have been awful. I felt like my reality was slipping. But those of you who know me in real life, I am stubborn as hell and I don't go down easily. I may not have the same wild chutzpah I once had as a teenager (holy hell if I was a ball of anger back then) but it is still there. Sometimes I joke that I must be a masochist because I keep facing my fears because I refuse to let them define me.

Yes. I am the person who wants to go sky diving because I am deathly afraid of heights (sorry Bobby!). I want to go on a hot air balloon ride despite the fact that my palms are sweaty and I feel like throwing up at the thought. So... why am I letting my anxiety get the best of me?

Have I become irreparably damaged? Have I broken myself to the point that there is nothing to salvage?

Crazy talk.

A few years ago, I had heard about Kintsugi when I was reading about wabi-sabi (not to be confused with wasabi, the horseradish paste). And as usual, I tucked that information away and continued down the rabbit hole of encyclopedias and internet articles because... that's what happens when boredom strikes. I remember being intrigued at the notion.

Wabi-sabi is the Japanese philosophy of embracing the flawed or imperfect. It resonated with me because I *do* like the flawed or imperfect. I find perfection to be boring and the little flaws of every day life are interesting. I feel this way about every day objects, nature and people. In fact, it is because of this notion that I find it easier to get to know people, make friends... eventually fall in love. Honestly, this is why I love photography so much; I like to capture the flaws because I find them beautiful. Some people may abhor wrinkles and grey hair. I find them sexy as fuck.

Kintsugi takes this philosophy into practical application. It is the art of repairing lacquerwear with gold in such a way that it makes a broken piece whole again. In emphasizes the cracks and holes in such a way that the broken piece is not only beautiful, but functional.

The concept came to mind on Sunday night, when I found myself curled up in bed trying desperately not to cry. My best friend was sleeping on the other room and I did not want to wake her although my anxiety was starting to get the best of me. I knew it would only be a matter of hours until I could see my husband again and I'd feel better but since we had failed to come up with a time for me to look forward to, I was floundering.  I was cracking and starting to fall apart.

A part of me seriously thought I was just bat shit insane and was the protagonist of an M. Night Shyamalan  movie where it is discovered that I am a widower for several years, my husband having died in a terrible camping accident. My best friend is really my shrink and we're doing some form of therapy to get me past my trauma.

But before I could fall victim to the paranoia, I began to fill the cracks with the facts I already knew.

I am cracked and broken... but mother was wrong. As long as the vase is not pulverized, it can be put back together, the holes filled and polished.

The Mantra we should all have on reserve.

This entry is brought to you by our guest writer, Kalypso the Krow. I love what she has to say and I find strength in her words.

"I will forgive myself for the lessons I have not yet learned. I will strive to be awake, to move forward, but will with perfect peace, understand that nothing can be forced. That revelations can not be strong-armed and that the answers will come only when the time is right, not when I forced them. I will see the value in the tiny steps and revelations for they must happen before the big, permanent changes take place."

I will rise. I will fall. I will rise again. I choose to be stronger every time. I choose to be smarter. That is how you move forward. That is how you grow. That is how you learn to live instead of just choosing to exist.

Welcome, Kalypso. Can't wait to hear more from you!

Lost in a Fog

Oh, how I sometimes take the simple act of inhaling for granted.

I have been soaring high the last few weeks. I was hell bent on having a fantastic birthday month and so far, I'd been doing good. But it wasn't until a few days ago that I realized I'm always ready for the rug to be pulled out from underneath me. I am always afraid that other shoe dropping. As the saying goes 'What goes Up must go Down.'

I started feeling the descent about a week ago. I started feeling restless, tired, constantly looking over my shoulder wondering the 'What Now?'

Then shit hit the fan.

And really, that's the most frustrating part of it all, I get myself so worked up in the small things that I get myself in a corner with no escape. I do this to myself and it is something I have been doing for so long, that I have yet to find a pattern but you can bet your ass that now I have an idea as to what the problem is, I will keep digging until I figure it out. I am honestly *tired* of being scared.

Because I am scared. I am full of fear and its always there, somewhere underneath the surface and sometimes, I get sucked in. I start drowning in it and I forget how to swim.

I found myself sitting at a cute little bistro, across the table from one of my closest friends a few days ago. I do not remember what she said exactly but I felt how my heart began to race, the heat gathering in the back of my eyes. My palms started to sweat, and there was this heavy static filling my ears. I could hardly articulate what was going on but, bless her heart, my friend picked up on it.

This thing, this buzzing in the back of my head is called Anxiety. And its shaking me, deeply. I never knew there was a word for it... I just knew that from time to time all I could do was be irritable and then I'd lash out in anger.



I found myself doubled over at my desk, tears stinging my eyes as the frustration took over. I wanted to take my computer and chuck it out the window.  I had been listening to music all day but it had gotten to the point that I could no longer make out the words. All I could hear was something akin to the static on an old tv. At my feet, I had my cats trying to get my attention, kneading at my knees, meowing, doing anything to break the wave that had begun to wash over me.  Because, see, once the static stops, all that is left behind is this overwhelming voice of sheer, unadulterated self-loathing.

And when *that* picks up, it is superbly difficult to stop myself from doing stupid things.

That voice had become a stage whisper by the time my  husband texted me.

Me 4:34: *sigh* I'm sorry [I didn't pick you up]. I've been in a shit mood all day.
Me 4:34: I didn't even take my shower.
Him 4:34: I love you too.
Him  4:34:  Why didn't you shower?
Him 4:34 :  What happened?
Me 4:35 : Its irrational, I know.. but I feel anxious... I'm on edge. I just feel super overwhelmed.
Him 4:35: why?
Me 4:35: And I had a good cry earlier.
Him 4:35: What about?
Me 4:36 : If I knew what the problem was, babe, I wouldn't be feeling this way.

The conversation went on like that for another half hour until he dropped this gem on me. '[you're] probably still adjusting to me not being at home every waking moment.'

by this point, that stage whisper had turned to a loud roar, like that of water rushing into my ears.

He got a new job. My schedule changed. He has a trip with the boys where he'll be gone for a good four days. I know it sounds super stupid in retrospect but the fear, that incomprehensible anxiety is still there.  My pattern has been disturbed and most importantly, my rock cannot be there for me as usual. He is my anchor, my safe haven.

The rational part of my brain knows this is good for us. We'll be fine. We'll deal with it and come out stronger like we always do. He'll be at a good park, with good friends and they're all bright men who are not stupid and have gone camping before.

The irrational part of me?

Ho boy... she's full of bullshit. She feeds me images of bear attacks, natural disasters, the boys lost in the wilderness for days and dying. And the biggest kicker? Feeding me crap about how he's just *not going to come home because I'm not worth it.* Which is even more stupid because there is no real reason as to why he'd go out for milk and never come home.

And now that I have found the root problem, I'm dealing with it a little better. I'm starting to walk myself out of the fog that has me shaking.

Except now that I'm starting to see my way out of this, I still have that voice... and that is much, much harder to deal with.  She has me wanting to grab a pin or a letter opener and use my skin as canvas. She has me wanting to go park my ass at a table and shovel food into my mouth and because I know how dangerous that is for me right now, she has clouded my brain to not register the signs I have just started to recognize as normal. That voice has me sucking stick after stick of nicotine to dull the pain because, damn it, I feel raw. It hurts to breathe. I feel like I'm not getting enough air so I keep inhaling over and over to the point where I'm dizzy. My head hurts. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of feeling so out of control and full if impulses that drive me just a little bit crazier.

The guilt is eating me alive because I want to go outside and light another stick. I don't even need the damned nicotine. I just like the flick of the lighter, the spark turning to flame and the smoke. I can imagine my fears rising into the ether and vanishing.

....

Putting pen to paper unravels the mysteries of that fear that lives beneath the surface.  I now need to change my perspective and this is much harder to do.

I suppose that just means I have to make sure the battery is always charged because starting tomorrow, I'm taking Anastasia with me to work. Writing helps me make sense of the noise in my head, but the camera forces me to see things in a different way and god... I like the silence that comes with it.

The Unknown

I have been riding high the last few weeks. I had a bounce in my step, a smile on my face and the world seemed so much brighter.

But I knew that was not going to last.

It never really does, it just happened to be one of the longest spells for a while.

And I am determined to not let the darkness take over again.

Our lives, just like the ever changing world around us, changes constantly. There will be sunny days, hot days, dry days, cold days, rainy days... I just have to keep moving.

For today, though, the anxiety wins for at least a few hours. That's okay. Sometimes, you just have to take a break, let it all out and compose yourself before getting back up again.


A lot of people seem to think that being strong means never being upset, sad or broken.. or just moving on unfazed. The truth is a lot more complicated than that. A strong person knows that it is okay to be weak from time to time. A strong person feels just as much as those around them. A strong person bows their head in anger and frustration and sadness just the same. A strong person knows when to reach out for help when he can't go on alone. A strong person knows that everyone has flaws and weaknesses; being strong does not exempt you from this.

So for the next hour or so I will be content curled up on the couch, crying for a bit with the comfort of my cats around me. I've been riding so high lately that the anxiety of the unknown -- because I am neurotic like that -- has just become too much to bear. I will let it wash over me like crashing waves of the ocean and when I've had my fill of sorrow, I'll get back off that couch and do something worth while.

Because I'm learning that  I am a lot stronger than I give myself credit for.