Home Is Where They Are


(This is something I shared on my Facebook a month ago and thought I would share it here as well. Trying to get back to my blogging.)

I realized last night that it would be my last night ever in this home, my grandparents home. This was THE house to be growing up. My grandparents had 4 children who then gave them TWELVE grandchildren, me being lucky enough to be one of them. I know this post won’t be as sentimental to most of you, but seeing as how I share little moments of my life on here I thought I would include this one. Many summers, holidays, birthdays, and random visits for sled rides happened here. They’re kids lived very spread out, from Russia to Maryland, though they all eventually made it to living in the states. This was home.

    If you were ever fortunate enough to knock on their door you’d be greeted by the most polite and humble human beings on the planet. Their yard saw many childhoods, and made for many memorable tree climbing, hide and seek, fort building, and sled riding. I learned to plant a flower garden here. I learned to make my bed here. I learned to walk (literally, Easter Sunday). I learned that my grandma is a very wise and intelligent woman. She is so thoughtful and has spent her whole life serving others despite her amazing potential. She decided to direct her skills towards her family, and for that I am forever grateful. My grandfather set the standard for all men to me. He still tells her she’s beautiful, he still brags about her like she’s the hottest thing to walk the earth. He’s also a very handy man in every area. He made sure all his grandkids knew what they were doing no matter what it was. From cars to laundry, he was a very handy man despite his limitations due to accidents. I could go into so much detail on how this house help raised me. I’m sad to see my grandparents moving.

   But after all, time does it’s thing and has made it hard for them to move up and down the stairs that wrap around this home. They will be in an easier laid out place and my grandma will probably relax knowing she doesn’t have as much to keep up with. I’m happy to see them excited about a change. Though I never came from much, I feel like the most fortunate girl on the planet to have been cared for by these people. I will never forget the memories on Mogadore Road.



Trying To Call Mom

Yesterday I sat out in the warm sun, a different setting compared to my gloomy room that’s been absorbing my cold, trying to work up the courage to call my mom. It shouldn’t be this hard and it shouldn’t require this much thought, but considering our past history over the course of these last three years, I was having trouble. I found myself tearing up.

You see, I grew up with a kind and fun loving mother. She hid her demons well, despite the little moments they broke lose. She never hurt us, at least not physically, and she always promised to love and care about us children. I find this ironic, and it may be immature or lame of me to admit, but her attitude and lack of love and caring of me as a teenager pushed me to move out on my own at 18. I will forever regret moving out so soon, that night, so fast, waiting until my dad arrived home late from work to say goodbye, because the least I could do was tell him in person. But it hurt them to see me leave, and it hurt me that they could not grasps the damage that had been done by their words. I can’t go in to too much personal detail, but it mostly involved my christian conservative parents disappointed that I had plans to move in with my boyfriend. Thus forcing them to accept that their once missionary-to-be daughter was “ruined.”

“You are going to hell, we raised you better than to be a slut.” Something a few harsh weeks before I moved out my mother had yelled at me. She later regrets it, and apologized, but it made me realize there is this blind that no one wants to open in that house and that is the fact that a human being can make decisions for themselves without it being dictated by a God or a book or something as simple as a traditional upbringing.

I was not a slut, and I would like to believe that my soul will reincarnate into a mermaid when I die. However if there is a hell, I hope people who have done far worse than say those things to their daughters, and people who have done far worse than commit the sins of this daughter, are living there.

It’s been almost two years since I made the choice to move out, or rather was evicted from my own home with a month “to get myself together.” Two years and I am still with the boyfriend that created me into a “deceiving, dishonorable, slut.” He does not abuse me, he does not take advantage of me, and he most certainly does not call me any of these degrading names. He’s no prince charming on a white stallion, but he does drive a red mustang and can cook up a feast for two in fifteen minutes.

I did not distance myself from them as much as most young adult females would have. I still had a younger sister I wanted to see, and I still loved and missed my parents. I never had any intentions of hurting them, so I have made every effort to show them that. With little bits of progress here and there, by visiting on holidays and birthdays and random Sunday’s, things have gotten less tense. They still do not accept me, they claim to love me and would let me move back in, but they refuse to see or allow my boyfriend over to visit, or even speak of him. This, will ultimately be what keeps us from ever having that “bond” again.

Despite the baby steps, I’m still feeling like I’m alone in this process. I need my mom a lot, I miss my mom. I miss who we were, when we would go to tea party’s in Amish country and watch romantic comedies on repeat.

But yet, I can’t call her. I just saw her a few weeks ago while saying goodbye to my sister as she was packing her car up for college. My mom was crushed, she had spent most of her life raising three children, and they are now all moved away. Of course the closest one living near her would be me, the one she least wants to see most likely. I don’t want her depression and own personal demons to ruin her anymore than it already has, so despite the fact that I may have done some kind of damage to her condemning judgmental soul, I still care. I still cherish the memories. I’m still the “positive thinker” in this family.

So why don’t you call me, mom. I will try not to cry if you start crying. I will try not to bring up things that upset you, I will listen to what is wrong, and I will make plans to call you more often.

I want you to be happy when I get engaged, married, have children.

But how can any of this happen, if I can’t even call you?


3:44 AM Thoughts

It’s really late. Or should I say, it’s really early?

I’ve got ideas, I’ve always had ideas. Slowly but surely, I have been putting those ideas into text. Whether it’s jotting them down on my phone’s notepad app or throwing a few key words onto a word document, I’ve been trying really hard to get them to work.

Ever since I was a little Liz, I loved to write and tell a story. I wanted to be a Journalist well until I was about fifteen, when people started telling me that I should “Get real” and realize that Journalism was a dying career choice. But I figured no matter what career I chose, where I went in my life, I could always have a pen and paper (or app) nearby that would allow me to jot down any ideas I may have.

I don’t know where to start, I don’t know how to start. Fellow writers out there, where did you start with your writing? I’m so intimidated by my own ideas and thoughts that I don’t even know where to begin with my writing process. I want to so badly begin on this trilogy book idea I have had in mind for some time now, but I can’t bring myself to write.

I wish I had the excuse of writers block, but in fact it is the exact opposite. I have a million ideas and words and subjects to go with, but I continue to hesitate with doubt. Doubt that it will ever work, doubt that I will ever finish a piece of writing, doubt that I can even try and be successful something as simple as grammar.

So those are my thoughts for this early, humid, Monday morning.

Advice Appreciated.


Walking Became My Therapy

I have a lot of thoughts, and few issues. But my issues run deep, and they make me stop and have these little things called mental breakdowns. These breakdowns make me feel weak, out of control, unhappy, sad. Lots of emotions. Over trivial things, and sometimes, over serious things.

I pull through. I make it out of that dark haze for another so many days or months, and I’m okay. I stop and think “gee, why did I let that bother me? Why did I let it break me down?” But it did, and it probably will again.

There’s been some history of mental health issues in my family, but I never like to rely on the facts that just because something has happened in your family means it will happen in your own personal future. Makes sense? But this is different. I can remember through the fog of being a little girl when my mom would have breakdowns, it never felt normal, but it became normal. Us kids would help her pull through it, somehow. Because at the end of the day she was our mom, a good mom despite some current events, and she loved us.

I must remind myself that. That I love myself, enough to not give up. To not let these breakdowns define my personality.

So I’ve started walking. Walking on my lunch hour, walking in the evenings sometimes and over the weekends. Most importantly, I started walking when I felt like I was going to shut down and start losing my cool with everyone around me. I walk to be healthy as well. My former anorexic self still has some dark thoughts that peep out sometimes and makes me feel like I need to go walk off whatever I just ate. But I can usually fight those thoughts just fine.

Walking just makes me feel good. Time by myself, outside when it’s warm or cool. I have a destination; a start and a finish. I feel good when I get through my set goal and end with the feeling of wanting to keep walking.

They say you should walk thirty minutes a day for exercise, I say you should walk just to clear your mind.

With as much time as we spend on our phones, at work, on social media, it’s nice to just take a breather. I know it’s not the same as seeking help from a mental health professional, which I should probably do at some point in time, but for now, walking helps me feel good and control my thoughts. It doesn’t cost anything, just a little time and dedication.

What do you do as a form of “therapy?” Feel free to leave a comment.