Untangling Chains

I decided to start psychotherapy when I admitted to myself that I was an alcoholic. Three years ago, I could not go through a day without a drink. It began with a glass of nightly wine. Then I started drinking a lot more on nights-out. Introverted me suddenly wanted to attend social gatherings so that I would have an acceptable reason to drink more.

Eventually, I found a reason to get a buzz every time. I had lunches with a mojito. Then I had breakfasts with mimosas. And my nighttime drinking in solitude got worse. From a glass a night, I eventually worked my way up to half to a whole bottle of red wine. I said I needed the wine to sleep. But eventually the half bottle wasn’t making me drowsy so I amped up my consumption until I would be spinning and ready to collapse in bed.

There was a time that there wouldn't be a week's worth of
Facebook posts that didn't have me holding a drink. (This is
me with a lunchtime mojito.)

Two years ago, I knew I was in trouble. My liver was dying but, more than that, I felt that I was drinking because I wanted to numb my emotions and thoughts. And, as I got worse, I realized that I was subconsciously trying to kill myself. 

I found her accidentally, my psychiatrist. She shared an office at the hospital with my son’s developmental pediatrician. While I was in the hospital for my son’s regular checkup, I decided to book an appointment with Dr. S on a whim. I figured, "what was there to lose? How could I even get worse than I was already? It was worth a try and, if she wasn’t good, I could always find another. "

My first visit was a bit of a disappointment. I really wanted to stay away from meds to solve my problems but after my hour-long appointment where I gave a briefer on my alcoholism and depression, she did just that. Mood-stabilizer, was what she called it. To me it was just a drug that I feared would simply replace the alcohol. But I took them anyway, just to see what would happen.

After two weeks, I was convinced that I needed them. I was crying less and was functioning better. But my drinking continued. 

For the first three months, my monthly therapy sessions were uneventful. I would whine about my life and tell stories from my childhood. Nothing ground-breaking was happening to me. I was as alcoholic as ever and I now had meds to add to my list of emotional crutches.

At around six months, things started to happen. But only after I began to be more honest about what I was really going through in life. I wasn’t optimistic about her suggestions, though. “Keep yourself busy,” she said. “Indulge in your crafts. Continue with your regular workouts.” What really stuck with me during that time, though, was when she said that I should build a “parallel life.” One where I was happy, doing things I wanted, taking care of myself. An escape from my daily worries. 

It sounded dumb, really. I already had alcohol, meds, cigarettes, now she was telling me to do more things to escape my reality?! I was seeing her to help me deal with my reality, not avoid it. But I followed her anyway and kept seeing her monthly for, what really only seemed like, chit-chat. 

Oh, but what all that chit-chat did! After a year of seeing her, as she got to know me better, as I began to trust her, as I continued to pursue my passions, I started to develop a sense of self. I began to realize who I was underneath all the crap and what I really wanted in life. That’s when the alcoholism stopped. By forcing me to do seemingly psychologically-irrelevant tasks like painting, sewing and exercise, I was weakening my dependence on drinks as a crutch. 

"Surrender" 2018

Costume sewn for a friend

Ran my second NY Half Marathon in
March 2019

The meds were still a crutch but a medically-necessary one. Without the meds to help stabilize my emotions, I would not have had the lengthier moments of sanity that helped me think deeply about my issues without crying and falling into the vortex of depression. Healthy self-realizations happened when I was stable and sane and the meds helped pave way for me to have those quiet moments in my head. 

Finally, after much dissection and introspection, I was able to clearly identify my problems. And, with the strengthening of my inner voice, I was then able to find ways to solve them. I started to make plans. I began to set boundaries. I started feeling like I was finally living for me, not to force myself to fit into societal or religious norms. I may have changed but people around me haven’t and they have to learn to deal with the new me if they want me in their lives. This might sound selfish to most, but I realized that I have one life to live and I will try my darnest to stay true to myself. 

Last week, as I laboriously worked for hours on untangling a bunch of chain necklaces that I haven’t touched in a decade, I stopped myself to write a note on my phone. “Untangling chains,” I typed. Because that is what psychotherapy is helping me with. Everything within me was a mess, a mishmash of past hurts and current problems that all did not allow my true self to come out. I slowly have to unravel the knots and twists to see through the jumble but I’m getting there with patience. 

My mental and emotional chains are more
numerous and intertwined but I'm getting there.

This is not the happy ending. In fact, it is just the beginning of more years of struggle. Until the chains are truly apart from each other, they weigh me down and I won’t be totally free to be truly me. When I can live as me and be oblivious to the way the world sees me without harming them, that is when the journey is complete. This is the happy ending I hope I find before I die. 

Getting a high without alcohol

Finding peace slowly

Courage

Sometimes courage is not about bungee-jumping, rock climbing or even sky diving. Sometimes, it is the subtle push you give yourself to leap into the unknown. 

I am traveling to Siem Reap in a few days, alone. I’ve never traveled on my own as a tourist. I am doing this to prepare myself for the more distant trip to Budapest in September. Why this need to travel alone? Because, like many things I’ve been pushing myself to do lately, it is a fear that I have to overcome. 

I want to know how it feels to be in a foreign place where you, alone, are the master of your trip. Wake up when you want, go wherever you want to go, skip touring if you’re lazy or even dare to deviate from the usual tours. My past trips were always planned by others- from accommodations, itineraries, budgets. In Siem Reap, it’s all on me (but first, someone please define “budget” 😛 ).

Siem Reap is major for me. I am not only trying to be brave in order to face unfamiliar experiences. I also need courage to face peoples’ opinions of me; from the father of my children, my friends, my parents. 

“Sama ako (Let me go with you),” someone would say. “Ang lungkot naman. Mag-isa ka lang? (How sad. You'll be all alone?)” another would chime in. Of course there are those, too, that second-guess my intentions. Because, what kind of middle-aged Filipina mother travels on her own anyway? Is she searching for new connections and friendships?

At this point, as I near 50, I don’t give a f*ck. It’s an art I’m trying to master. I know the truth. I know my intentions. I love my children and that love guides me in all that I do. I want my children to see a strong mother who joined half marathons in her late 40s and learned to rock climb. Someone who dared to be true to herself without concern for what society says. 

My second NY Half Marathon

Conquering my fear of heights

Which brings me to my next adventure. The next major event that will require me to muster all the courage I have within. I am migrating to the US once again.  Many will say, “wow, ang sarap naman! (wow, that will be so much fun!).” Or, “that will be a better life for you. You’re so lucky.” Right now, all I feel is fear. 

I am not familiar with that life anymore. I left California in 2008 a different person- obese, lacking self-love and an identity. I was a mother and wife who followed the pack. That was all I knew. That was all I wanted.

Days before I moved back to Manila in 2008

So much has changed in almost 11 years. Aside from a 60-pound weight loss, I became me. The woman I didn’t know I could be. Someone with an identity so strong that she protects it fiercely from anyone who dares change it. Someone who loves her friends but craves for solitude just as much. Someone who can’t last long without the happy hormones of her workouts. Someone who admits that, though this is a nice level of self-awareness to settle in, there is much more to learn and a tremendous amount of growth that is still possible. 

And so, much more than Siem Reap, Budapest, and the fear of heights, I now face this new unknown. Will I be happy in America? Will I lose my sense of self again because I will have to reinvent myself to function best as a mother? Will I have to amp up my anti-depression meds? Hahaha! 

It is a move I have to do. For my children’s sake. And, no matter how badly I will miss the person I have become in the last few years, there is no higher passion in my heart than to be the best mother. This is all I have that defeats my doubts and fears. 

I cry now as I fear the inevitability of losing a part of the “new me” in America. The person I’ve worked so hard to become. The one that I had to fight for for years. We’ll see. It’s just the next step for me. My biggest adventure (for now). Hopefully, a big chunk of the new me remains. To do this, I will fight fiercely and be brave. 

Taking another leap into the unknown

My psychiatrist said it best last month. “The biggest sign of mental health is the ability to embrace the ambiguous.” I guess I am sane now. 💗 

"Ambiguous" by Niña Defensor with my self-made
strength and empowerment bracelet

Budapest

It all started after I ran a half marathon in San Francisco and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The emotions I felt when I first stepped onto the bridge were overwhelming and inexplicable. I could not understand why, though I loved this bridge immensely, my chest was overflowing with happiness and the joy was making me teary-eyed.
  

Emotional before I crossed the GGB

That feeling of elation remained (still does) with me. I wondered, what if I set out to run over bridges for as long as physically-possible? So I started to Google “most beautiful bridges in the world.” Among those bridges, I looked for half marathons that passed said structures. That’s how Budapest came up. 

Budapest’s Chain Bridge, merely 200 meters, but gorgeous. Of course the capital of Hungary isn’t an eyesore either so I said, why not? But I couldn’t commit just yet. There were so many things going against the plan. 

The Szechenyi Chain Bridge
(source: travelbe.weebly.com on Pinterest)

The biggest obstacle of all was fear. I have never traveled alone to an unfamiliar destination, so the fear was intense. This thought prevented me from taking any further steps for more than two months. I shelved the bridge mission indefinitely.

Then, one at a time, things would remind me of Budapest. First was George Ezra’s song, “Budapest,” one of my recent favorites. Only after the bridge mission did I even notice the title of the song. It doesn’t even talk about the city! 

Being part of a family of Avengers fanatics, I made it a point to watch Endgame on its first day out. “We’re a long way from Budapest,” Hawkeye tells Natasha as they flew through space. I smiled at the reference as I sat through the movie alone.

Last week, my daughter, G who lives in California, shut me out of my Spotify playlist unknowingly while she played her music. I was forced to play my songs on Youtube. And there it was. Not even a song title, just text in the beginning of Ellie Goulding’s video for (another of my favorites) “Close to Me”- BUDAPEST, HUNGARY. It was the setting of the video’s storyline.

                                  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajN57m_OSpY

That was it. I was going to Budapest. I was no longer going to be afraid. 

But then, another hurdle. How could I go to Hungary in September when I have to watch the kids in California? Unless… our dearest yaya Ting got her US visa approved and she could take care of the kids for a week while I’m gone. Only then would I be able to commence the bridge mission.

This obstacle to my plans was almost impossible to overcome. Having been denied a visa six months ago, the chances of her being granted one now was remote. The consul would obviously scrutinize her application deeper. S/he would ask tougher questions. Ting and I both went to the US Embassy early this week with no expectations. We knew that an approval was a stretch.

“Bahala na ang Diyos; Kung para sa yo, sa yo (It’s up to God; if it’s meant for you, it will be yours),” I repeatedly reassured Ting (and myself). And then…

Synchronicity! Yes, of all the consuls, we got the sweetest man who wanted to give us another chance; even if both Ting and I both fumbled through our answers. (Or maybe it was my charm? 😜 ) 

My psychiatrist is a huge Carl Jung fan. And,  although she didn’t mention Jung last month when I visited her, it is interesting to note that it was Jung who coined the term “synchronicity.”

Source: Wikipedia

Budapest is the result of synchronicity. It is a product of the aligning of events and coincidences. 

Yay! Registered!

Call it vibration, manifestation, destiny, God’s work. Things happen to us as they should. They are either steps to a more meaningful endpoint or are lessons to be learned on our way to self-awareness. The Budapest journey taught me that- to surrender and let go. Kung para sa yo, sa yo. 

"Synchronicity" by Niña Defensor with a Labradorite bracelet

Catharsis

Alcoholism. Depression. Autism. My parents. My lesbian sister. My ex-boyfriends. My two husbands. My psychiatrist. These are topics I write about. Some people might criticize me for opening up too much about my life. I know my parents worry about my privacy (I do too). Others might think I simply want attention or, when my posts are sad, pity. 

I don’t define myself as a “writer.” I don’t create pieces on demand. I can’t have deadlines and assigned topics. Most importantly, I cannot write about subjects that I don’t care about. Whenever I do, the piece seems contrived, insincere. 

I am with writing as I am with my other hobbies- always for love, always mood-driven. I have to be passionate about something to be able to write about it. Yes, there are many writers who can write pieces without divulging snippets of their lives, but mine are not merely essays. They’re stories. Of my life mostly but unintentionally stories, too, of others who have had similar experiences. 

For my daughter's airplane birthday party, my sisters and mom were the flight
attendants, we built a pretend cockpit for the stage, presented a safety
demonstration, and dressed guests in pilot hats and aviator sunglasses.
All for love. :)

Recently, one of my good friends experienced a major heartbreak. After I talked her through her pain and tears for an hour, she said, “why do you give such good advice, anyway? How can you know all these things?” “Because I’ve been heartbroken many times!” I said, laughing. 

My psychiatrist said it best. “You are a wounded healer,” she said. Her choice of words was both hilarious and marvelous. I never thought of myself as a “healer.” I always thought that I was the one that needed to be healed. I never imagined that all my crying and drama would be of any value to any one else. 

I haven’t written anything on my autism blog, www.journeyonthespectrum.blogspot.com for years. But I remember an incident in Ton’s therapy center where, a mother’s eyes lit up upon seeing Ton, then she approached me to say, “is that Ton? Are you the writer of the autism blog?” I nodded and she said, “I read everything in it and it helped me so much, especially when my son was first diagnosed.” I thanked her and gave her my number in case she needed emotional support or answers to questions. 

In May this year, I wrote an article on special schools for Smart Parenting,, http://www.smartparenting.com.ph/parenting/kids-with-special-needs/choosing-a-school-for-my-child-with-autism-a1629-20170522-lfrm. It chronicled our long journey to find a good fit for Ton in terms of education. It also helped many parents of special children understand what it took my family six years to learn.

Lastly, my piece in this blog which was published in Rappler, https://www.rappler.com/move-ph/issues/gender-issues/95274-sister-wedding-same-sex, talked about a still highly controversial topic in our country. I really wanted to show how discrimination against same-sex relationships is so real by sharing how I, who once regarded my lesbian sister’s relationship as inferior, now see her marriage as an inspiration. 

I am not poetic. I don’t have a vast knowledge of figurative phrases. When I write, readers don’t have the opportunity to “see, smell, touch or taste” the words. My writing is plain, raw, emotional, and always “from the heart” (sometimes, I even cry while I write). Just like me- imperfect, unguarded, honest and always full of hope. 

This is the only way I know how to write. It’s the only way I know how to inspire others. By “healing” others through my writing, I slowly become less wounded myself. 

Just like me- imperfect, unguarded, honest and always 

full of hope.

(Written on November 8, 2017, never published until now)

Of Nice and Men

I’ve always taken pride in being empathic. I reward and develop friendships with service people who exceed my expectations. I always try to put myself in others’ shoes- the jeepney driver who cut me off, the pedestrian taking his sweet time to cross the street, household help who sometimes don’t get instructions clearly. Most of all, I try to understand difficult people as much as I can. 

Yesterday, a very important person, someone I care about deeply, someone I’ve always tried to understand and make excuses for, hurt me again. There’s something about this man that has always left me vulnerable. I’ve wanted nothing but to please him, make him proud of me. I’ve received a few praises over the years but what I remember the most are comments about my appearance and weight. He once said I looked like a whale. He said my husband (now ex-husband) would leave me because I was unattractive (he did, but because of another woman). He said I was too emotional, too nice, too friendly.

I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as he entered the restaurant. A few minutes later,

Him (out of the blue): Your next project is to lose weight!

Me (trying to defend myself): Pagbigyan mo na ako (cut me some slack), I’ve been sick for three weeks! I’m also training for a half marathon and I run every day. 

Him (snickering): Alibi accepted!

I forced a smile and looked away in disbelief. I watched the woman beside him and waited for her to defend me but she was silent. 

"Fat" me (1 day before
the comment)

I cried as soon as I got home. Not a lot, but the pain was overwhelming. And familiar. I should be used to it by now, after 47 years of hearing that I’m lacking in one thing or another. Throughout my life, I’ve managed to smile respectfully at hurtful comments. I’ve tried to understand him and make excuses for him. I’ve never doubted his love for me but have always wanted to feel it. 

He’s shown it in more practical ways- with generous gifts, trips, my monthly allowance. And I’m grateful. I’ve learned to accept that this is how he shows it. And I have no doubt he loves me. 

But whenever I’m around him, I’m a nervous 5 year old afraid to spill water on the table. In my 40s, I’ve seen major changes in him. He has become more communicative, laid-back, funny, honest. So I’ve relaxed, too, and have tried to open up more. But when these comments come (mostly having to do with my weight), I am often caught unaware. I’d be paranoid if I was really overweight (like yesterday) but I know that, even if I’m not at my fittest, I’m not ugly-fat like he makes me feel.

While I was holding back tears in my bathroom after lunch, I finally admitted that this feeling of unworthiness from my father has permeated my life through the years. I guess the mental conditioning that I wasn’t good enough led me to go on with relationships that were detrimental to me. Because I wanted to prove I was worthy. Because I kept making excuses for these men, thinking they’ve had sad childhoods, or that they, themselves, did not feel valued by their families. Or maybe, “he’s just tired.” With my ex-husband, I also justified the lack of intimacy with “I’m fat and look disgusting.” Nowadays, when my husband says something that challenges my intellect, I often retort, “are you calling me stupid?!” Or “I’m not dumb, you know!” because I tend to think that people look down on me.

Although I’ve been going to a psychiatrist for a while now, we never really discussed childhood hurts. It was my choice; I never wanted to dig deeper. I’ve had so much trouble dealing with the “now” of my life that I didn’t want the added burden of trying to resolve past issues. Yesterday, I realized, that I didn’t need to spend hours with my shrink to dissect why I’m so screwed up. I was screwed up because I still kept hearing my father’s voice in my head. Whether in justifying my partners’ abuse or being defensive about being inferior, this feeling of unworthiness has been ingrained in me. And, now that I am more conscious about it, I want it to stop.

I don’t regret what happened yesterday. It was meant to happen. I was meant to see and realize. I guess I am in a better place to appreciate the value of that pain. And I’m hoping that I finally draw from that pain to be a better person.

I don’t blame Papa. I still want to make excuses for him but I don’t hate him. In fact, it was when I realized that, it wasn’t him that I was sad about but that, I have  allowed his silent voice to make me believe that I did not deserve love or to be treated well; or to believe in myself and feel secure. Yesterday was a turning point that, although painful, was long overdue. I was emotionally ready to go through it and process it better. To not dwell on the feelings but to draw from the experience and learn.

After my moment of sadness in the bathroom, I was walking with my 15-year old daughter to the pool. “Don’t give your dad such a hard time. He loves you. He always tells you that. He says you’re pretty and smart always. He really appreciates you.” She gave me a quizzed look so I told her what happened over lunch. She understood. And I hope that you, who have children, see this too. The seemingly innocent teasing, joking about appearance and weight, or of your child’s intellect, sometimes those linger. Like mine have. Don’t wait until your grown up child has to see a psychiatrist at 45! :p

The father-daughter dynamic is very crucial in shaping a
young girl's future. I'm grateful that their relationship has
gotten better through the years.

Empathy is good but not to the point of abuse. I want to learn to set limits. I will try my best to distance myself from people who always tend to hurt me or those who want nothing but to take advantage of my kindness and understanding. I will learn to bask in the love that I have long-deserved but never truly appreciated. I am worthy. I am loved. I deserve this. I know better now. I will be better now. :)

No more silent voices in my head! (Hopefully :p)

Getting through

Here I am, 10:30pm, thinking about how to get through another emotional night alone. With a bit of self-pitying, I think, “I just want to get through tonight.” 

Then, my thoughts turn to Vicky Caparas, my high school friend. We were never close, but she was special to me. And (unknown to me) I, to her. 

Vicky said during our school's 50th anniversary reunion in
2013, "Aya, ang ganda mo! Pa-picture naman!" I blushed
and felt so awkward because it seemed so insane.

She passed away on October 28, with none of her friends by her side because she didn't want us to know of her situation. After battling bone cancer for four months, she finally succumbed to the disease. During her wake, her family said that she refused to take any pain medications for supposedly “the most painful cancer.” She prayed and put her faith in God until the very end, trusting that whatever pain would come, they were temporary obstacles to a better, more peaceful, pain-free ever-after. 

How did Vicky get through?  How strong was that faith? How do I even get that? How do I believe that there will be a better tomorrow? 

How? Here’s how. From one of Vicky’s dearest friends, Dory, to me on Facebook Messenger:

Vicky, and her closest friends Dory and Divine, saw me as valuable. Even if I do not see myself as such. They drew happiness from the knowledge that I valued them. And, though they saw me as “perfect” which is far from how I feel right now, I have that responsibility- to spread love and kindness. These two traits, I am sure I have (no matter how tough I am when I question my worth). 

Love and kindness. I have so much of these to give and share and I rarely ask for much in return. I give ’til it hurts. I try my hardest to make others happy. And, sadly given my mental state, I try my best not to inconvenience others.

In my lowest moments, when I force myself to overcome the sadness alone because I dread to reach out to any one for fear of inconveniencing them with my petty troubles, this is what I have to remember, thanks to my super smart sister.

In the greater scheme of things, what are my troubles, anyway? Sadness? Tell that to my friend, Vicky. My mental state defeats me. Her mental state defeated the pain of her disease. 

Dearest Vicky, no. I am not the perfect one. I am highly flawed and weak. Without intending to, your struggle has shown me what strength is. Like me, you did not want to inconvenience your friends with your troubles (though mine are far more petty than what you went through). But, unlike me, you marched on, battling your disease with just the immense belief that you would get through. That you would see it until the end. 

The last time I saw Vicky (and Dory), 2016, during my 45th
birthday celebration

I was not the blessing in your life, after all. You were my blessing. Please watch over me, Vicky. Soar. And, finally- live!

Better late than never

Hard to believe, but I was always anti-social. I am an introvert and I try to avoid social situations because I don’t quite know how to talk to people for the first time. Or, once that conversation has started, how to sustain it. 

This is why I do not have many close friends from my youth. The few that I have from high school and college remain special (even though we rarely see each other) because they’re like family. We grew up together and we learned to accept each other for who we were. And no matter how much we’ve changed since then, they’ve accepted that that’s part of your evolution. They still love you no matter what you’ve become. 

In fact, during a recent trip to Singapore with them, I realized that I was wrong for thinking that ours was a not-so-deep connection. It was there that I realized that they see the "me" hidden inside the “lost” girl I've always been. As I went through a very painful event in my life, they hugged me and cried with me. I realized, then (and even now as they express their support for me through my depression), that no matter how rarely we meet, their concern is genuine and unconditional.

In the honors section all, nerdiness brought us together. We may
have morphed into new beings but our shared history binds us.

In my midlife, though, with the added self-confidence and decreased self-consciousness, I have gradually made new, deep, meaningful friendships.  It didn’t take a lot of effort, really. I was ripe for new connections that would help carry me through to the next stage of my life. 

Surprisingly, I found out how the friendships I developed in my midyears could actually be the anchors that will keep me grounded and sane. Maybe it’s because I am already formed. I know who I am now. I am comfortable in my skin and am not ashamed to be me. I have come to a point where I pride myself in knowing that I am a good, loyal, honest, supportive, loving friend. And if these new characters in my life don’t appreciate who I am right now, I can move on without the pain of rejection. 

Luckily, I now have friends who accept me as I am. Flaws and all. History and all. Scars, deficiencies, quirks and all. I am not perfect. And they have willingly expressed that they themselves aren’t. We are all just people trying to make the most out of our lives. We want to be happy and have the unconditional support of sisters to help us get through whatever challenges we are going through.  Funny how I found that support from my Seoul Sisters.

Initially, I hung out with them for laughs and beauty advice.
Nowadays, I don't need a reason to. A month without seeing
them is just not complete.

They were my high school schoolmates but we were never close. I was always nerdy, in the honors section, and I was never their classmate. So I rarely spoke to them. After knowing them better in my 40s though, I’d like to say that we’ve more than made up for lost time. I often run to them for ears- about my passions, my weaknesses and my insanity. Who would have known that the women I once thought of as “landi”  (flirtatious) would be my major support system? They might have influenced me somewhat on the “landi” front, but if only to assure me that I am beautiful and I should not be ashamed to flaunt it. 

Then, thanks to my indoor cycling classes, I have had the wonderful opportunity to meet women who inspire me in different ways. My dearest Ting is like my Ate- she is a role model, she inspires and guides me (she is also my favorite cycling teacher :) ) The rest of my spin sisters come from a wide range of ages, one as young as 38 and then there’s me at 46 (!). We are in this circle to share different perspectives, different experiences, different passions but one motivation- to be there for each other when needed. Who would have thought? Me? Friends with my exercise classmates? Unheard of in my 4 decades, but real now. And worth cherishing for as long as I live. 

Whether we hang out over Happy Hour or in cycling class,
seeing these girls always lifts me up! (missing Donna and
Eleanor here)

46 years old. And only now am I planning nights-out, sleepovers and out-of-town trips with my girls. I feel like a teenager again! Secure in ourselves, we are not afraid to show each other who we really are. We are secure in each other’s love. I am grateful.

For so many years, I kept my guard up with other people. I was cautious of making friends for fear of being judged. Not anymore. I love and feel their love because I, myself, no longer have those judgmental cobwebs in my head. I am ready to trust and am willing to be vulnerable and lean on them for support. No matter how late in my life. ESPECIALLY THIS LATE IN MY LIFE!

No more solitary emoting! In my 40s, I realized
that I didn't have to carry it all alone.
I have friends!!!

Like I always say, “labia” girls. I’m looking forward to growing old with you!