There is something you should know about me. Come to think of it, you probably already know…

I am a VERY open person.

I say too much.

I over share.

And I bleed my narcissism all over this blog.

I’ve always been this way.  If someone is willing to listen, I open up. At a birthday party just the other week, I got into a conversation with an incredibly sweet not-so-sober gal I just met and ended up telling her my life story.  I was like, Ha ha! High five! Way to play flip cup! We totally dominated the guys! By the way, did I tell you I may never be able to have children?

Seriously? Who does that? Maybe it’s part of my middle child syndrome. I’m not really sure. Doctors are looking into it.

However, there are some topics I do not broach; like my personal relationship with my boyfriend ED. It’s not for lack of wont on my part, but more out of respect for him. You see, ED is my polar opposite. He is a private person. He doesn’t share his life story, fears and victories, with strangers. I think know a part of him thinks I am crazy for sharing as much as I do. So I write very little about our relationship–outside of sharing a funny story here and there–and try to keep my posts about the one thing no one can object to: ME!

Today I reached an interesting crossroad… a dilemma if you will. Because the TMI topic on my mind has to do with my relationship with ED. It’s my feelings, and therefore about ME so I could easily justify saying whatever I want.

But at what cost?

I tried to do the mature adult thing and talk to ED about it.

“Babe, I’m having trouble knowing what to do. How do you feel about me writing about us on my TMI post?”

“That sounds a lot like it will involve… feelings… and emotions… that strangers from all of the world will read about.”  *insert disgusted sound*

“Yes sweetie, it’s called blogging. I know you are a super private person but that is the topic that is on my mind so I thought I better talk to you about it before you read it online. It’s just that I made the decision to go back to what I originally started the blog out to be: a place for me to talk about my feelings in a very public way.”

“Well… I guess you can write about your… feelings about us. It’s more the personal stories about us that I don’t think you should share.”

“Don’t worry darling. I won’t let the Internet know about all of your sappy ways. Your secret is safe with me.”

Oops!

Only now this post has become incredibly long and I have lost the emotional capacity to explore my excitement and fears of the phase of our relationship we are entering. I mean, we are approaching a YEAR of being together (year and a four months if you include the first time we dated) and ED and I have both accepted the fact that neither of us are going anywhere!

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?

Me neither. Except that it feels good… and scary… but mostly good.

***

What about you? I’m curious. Do you “over share”? Are there topics you won’t write about, or if you are not a blogger, that you feel people should not write about?

Blogfully yours,

Summer

ED is not Emotionally Disturbed, TMI Friday

***WELCOME to a particularly long edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This is a weekly feature on Blogfully Yours where I hover the line of “over-sharing”. It’s like therapy, without the expense.***

Everyone deals with grief in different ways. Zach’s passing was the first real opportunity for me to find out mine. I’ve had relatives pass away, but aunts and grandparents are rarely as close as friends.

I will always remember every detail of loosing Zach. It’s a video montage burned in my brain that I can’t stop watching. It starts with a phone call, every word of which I could recite. Followed by tears, hysterical balling, running in a race that I remember starting and finishing, but the middle is still a blank. How I got my legs to move, how I kept it together, I honestly don’t know. I only remember thinking about finding every picture I have of Zach and asking ED to keep talking so I could maintain my composure.

When I crossed the finish line my eyes immediately filled with the tears I was pushing down, but I could not let them break free the way I wanted to. I had to say goodbye to clients and friends at the race (I do the PR for the event) then I went directly over to my sisters. I called several times and when she finally heard her phone all I could get out through my tears was, “Can I come over? Zach, he’s dead.”

When she answered the door she was wearing a fuzzy pink robe. I immediately lost myself in it. Crying harder than I ever knew I could. Sobbing to where I couldn’t catch my breath. She lead me to the couch where I collapsed on to her pink fuzzy robe and sobbed even harder.

I don’t know how long we sat like that. Days? Hours? Minutes? I had no concept of time. My friend was gone and the only thing that mattered was crying.

My sister canceled her day and told me she was my shadow; there to do whatever I needed her to do. We went to my parents house, unearthing boxes of memories from the past 15 years. I found every picture I wanted to find, but none that I did not expect to find.

That night the shadowing duty was passed on to Karina the Russian.

We blared music that Zach and I had listened to together while searching for more pictures on my computer. She got me sufficiently drunk. I passed out and sleep through the night.

I woke early the next morning (Sunday), sat up in bed and cried. It was the hardest day for me. Looking back now I can say, it was harder than the viewing, harder than the funeral. It was me alone with my grief. Every movement was painstakingly hard. I made coffee. I sat on the couch drinking my coffee and staring out the windows. Right as I had finally talked myself into taking a shower and actually moving off the couch, I got a phone call where the well intentioned party encouraged me to “keep moving”.

I knew they meant well, I knew they were probably right, but I was enraged at the words “keep moving” and ended up on the bathroom floor, sitting naked holding my legs tight to me, crying so hard I was actually dry heaving. I just let the shower water run while I wailed.

When I finally got out of the shower I tried to work on homework. I wrote two pathetic excuses of essays.  I wandered around my house aimlessly. As I walked through the family room I saw a large patch of sunlight on the carpet. I laid in it, looking up at my cat laying on the couch looking at me. I stared at the fibers in the carpet. Again I had no concept of time, but I laid there until the sunlight started to shift and no longer covered me.

I couldn’t bring myself to “keep moving” doing things I knew I needed to do, so I decided to rake leaves. As I began to rake, I could picture Zach walking around the corner to where I was. He had a big goofy grin and said,  “Summer, don’t be all upset. I’m fine. I don’t want you to be sad.”  I raked harder, trying to see what I was doing through the tears, until I finally gave up and let grief take over me again.

The leaves are still sitting in piles in the back yard.

I don’t know when exactly things start to get easier. I know that no day will ever be as hard as that Sunday; at least not when it comes to grieving the loss of my friend Zach.That Sunday I finally understood cutters. I finally understood wanting to feel physical pain over emotional pain. I never understood it before.

To be honest, I am doing OK. Sure, I yelled AT MY TEACHER when he compared Zach’s death to his cat being sick and yes, I did overreact and scream at ED because he dared not to call me while studying for a chemistry exam. Yes, I have been crying more often, drinking more often and getting out of bed was very difficult for a while…

But… I’m doing OK.

Each day gets a little easier.  For example, I had a memory of Zach tonight that I had forgotten. It came out of nowhere. Instead of crying, I actually smiled and laughed. I poured a glass of wine and cheers’d Zach for being a part of my life! I was grateful the memory came to me and that I now get to keep it in my memory folder.

It’s a small step, but a step none the less.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

NOT light and fluffy, TMI Friday

***I originally started this post a few weeks ago, before I began TMI Fridays. This is definitely an “over-sharing” post, but the date is the date I wanted to share this on, so… without further ado, my divorce story.***

Want to hear something crazy? Eight years and three months ago I got married.

Want to hear something sane? Four years and three days ago my divorced was finalized.

I shouldn’t really call that sane. It sounds so harsh… I did, after all, love the guy. We were two love struck kids (high school sweethearts) who became each others best friends, confidants and crutches. We jumped in with both feet. Clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it—at the time, I thought they did.

No one ever gets married thinking they’ll get divorced; I know we didn’t. We were hopeless, young, and naive and we thought we had all the answers. Turns out, we didn’t.

Time has a funny way of changing things and the life I always envisioned never panned out. In its place came bills, mortgage number one, mortgage number two, lack of career direction, the inability to conceive a child and a series of betrayals that caused me to build up a wall, and I hate to sound cliché, but I  fell out of love.

I remember distinctly, one not-so-sober night, confessing to a close friend that I didn’t think I wanted to be married anymore. I was, of course, crying. She looked me right in the eyes and, using my maiden name said, “Summer K. Fredrickson, you are a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and if you don’t want to be married anymore, you don’t have to be.”

I left him three days before our four-year anniversary.

That sounds cold… but I did. I left. I left before our anniversary because it felt like a sham to stay through it.

I needed to stand on my own two feet to be successful in this life. I had to spread my wings, assert my independence and find out what I was really made of.

God damn it’s been a long, hard journey.

But you know what? I am so much stronger because of it. I actually like the person I am. I’m proud of how far I have come and that I actually know who I am. Before, I only knew whose girlfriend/fiancé/wife I was.

It seems the more time passes, the more I understand why my marriage ended and the less complicated it becomes… I take that back, it is still complicated; it’s just not as painful and raw to talk about. Because, while I was the one who did the leaving, I also never looked back. That was the one thing I could always take solace in. If I had done the wrong thing, wouldn’t I be filled with regret? Wouldn’t I want to go back? I knew I made the right decision… for me.

Four years later my ex-husband is now re-married and expecting a child. He finished going to school and has his life together. Turns out it was the right decision for him too and I am, in fact, very happy for him.

***

We all choose the paths we walk down. Mine has taken me here.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

TMI Friday

***WELCOME to the second edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This is a weekly feature on Blogfully Yours where I hover the line of “over-sharing”.***

I’m six feet tall.

That is not an euphemism, I am literally six feet tall.

Growing up I always got asked if I played on my high school basketball team, volley ball team, track team, etc. Sadly, sports was never my thing so I had to answer “no.” To which people would always shake their head and say, “shame, lettin’ all that height go to waste”.

Because what good is being tall if you are not going to play sports?

I did try. Which is to say I tried out for the volleyball team once. I didn’t make the cut. Something to do with my lack of ability to actually hit the ball. I guess that’s an important part.

So, no, I did not play sports. I did however go to two different modeling schools.  Yep, I learned how to strut on the catwalk and smile pretty for the camera instead of dribble a basket ball.

Apparently I wasn’t good at modeling either, because it never resulted in anything but a short lived eating complex and low self esteem. In modeling, you are never enough–never skinny enough, never pretty enough, never proportioned in the right places enough–so ultimately while I dreamed of fame, adoration, exotic photo shoots and fortune, I didn’t hate myself enough to get there.

What to do with all this height then?

If I could, I would share it with some of my “vertically challenged” friends. Giving them two or three inches would certainly make it easier to find pants long enough for me…

But, since that is not an option, I figure I’ll put it to good use by assisting friends who can’t reach the top shelf while cooking me dinner, make short men feel intimidated (especially when I wear heels), get to places faster with my long strides, hide extra weight by spreading it over more surface area, keep Shick Razors in business, and give people a reason to whisper to their friends, “geeze she’s tall. I bet she played sports in high school.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Just me, TMI Friday

***WELCOME to the first edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This will be a weekly feature and I encourage anyone who likes short and fluffy, light and funny posts, to probably steer clear of these. No offense will be taken. This is my chance to use Blogfully Yours for what it was always intended to be: a place where I can write about my thoughts, reflections and yes, my feelings.***

I’ve never been one to fight against establishment. Down with the man! Yeah, that’s just not me. I’m a peacemaker. I’d be the hippie girl putting a flower in the soldier’s gun rather than the feminist screaming about equality or a protestor marching with a picket sign.

With that in mind, it’s no surprise growing up I never questioned my religious upbringing. I never fought with my mother about going to church for 3 hours on Sunday; that was my older sister’s role, and boy was she good at it. I, on the other hand, simply got up, threw on my LDS appropriate church dress, grabbed my pink leather scripture case, bowed my head, took the sacrament and played the role of the obedient daughter. Why fight? It wasn’t so bad after all… plus, it was all I had ever known. If anything, it would make me an outsider among my Mormon friends if I didn’t go to church – like the time I dated a guy when I was 16 who, Oh My Goodness!, was NOT Mormon! My friends came together, intervention style, to tell me they love me and are concerned because I was dating a man who could not take me to the temple and you should definitely only date men who are marriage worthy!

I dated him anyway; convinced I could convert him and therefore save him… It didn’t work.

There were always certain things about the church that never made any sense to me growing up. When I would questions my church leaders about them their answer was always to pray about it and I would get the answer.

But what about… Pray!

But how about… Pray!

I was young and naive and wanted to do right by my parents as well as my religion, so I tried. Pray! Pray! Pray! Jesus and I became pretty tight back then.

One of the hardest parts about growing up Mormon for me—which I am sure other religions can relate to (Catholics I’m looking at you)—is the guilt you grow up with. I remember the first time I made out with a boy, I felt so guilty I confessed to my Bishop. It’s true. FOR MAKING OUT! But that is what the guilt does to you. I was certain my parents and Jesus didn’t love me anymore because I could feel my boyfriend’s boner poke against me while we made out. The guilt engulfed me. I was going to hell! My only hope was to beg Jesus for his forgiveness. And beg I did. Beg! Beg! Beg!

I am not sure when I finally got fed up with feeling like a horrible person. I remember after I became sexually active (with my boyfriend of almost a year!), I still had not touched a drop of alcohol but came to the conclusion if I was going to go to hell for having sex, then what did it matter if I threw one more sin on the fire?

But to clarify, I didn’t leave the LDS church so that I could drink and have sex. I left because so much of what I was taught didn’t match up with what I actually believed to be true. For example, I didn’t believe I actually would go to hell for my life style and I didn’t believe that if Jesus was in fact real, that he would condone the judging and holier than thou attitude I felt being impressed upon me. I believed that Jesus would be a lover, not a damner and that he would want me to be happy.

I will never say that I had anything less than a wonderful childhood. I feel I was raised with great values and a certain level of moral codes. The LDS church played a role in instilling some of those values. But parting ways was a good thing for me. To make my own decision based on what I knew to be right and wrong and not feel the hold of the church on me and to not be holding on to the church was freeing.

I love and adore all of my Mormon family and do not think poorly of them for remaining in the church, just as I hope they do not think poorly of me for choosing to leave it. While I could share horrible stories of bad experiences with the church, or rather, some of its members, I have always chosen to avoid “Mormon Bashing” and also those who do so out of respect to my family.

I am the hippie flowerchild peace-maker, so to write all of this feels slightly antagonistic to me.

But you know what?

It also feels good to say.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

TMI Friday