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New Ways To Fall Apart

Life is a series of rushes. A rush from home to daycare. From daycare to work. Work back to daycare. Daycare to home. Home to Serge's house to drop off/pick up kids. Serge's house back to mine. Holy shit, we're out of milk for the third time this week. Get in the car, kids.

I feel like I'm always late. I hate being late. Late is a moth flapping in my chest, a hand squeezing my esophagus, a roiling in my stomach, an eventual headache at the end of the day but just keep going, you. You've got dinner to make a house to clean a lawn to mow bills to pay shit to write work to do and recorded TV shows waiting in your DVR that you attempt to watch in some token effort to feel like a part of society before exhaustion wrestles you into bed.

I am overwhelmingly aware that these are the days with my children that I should be relishing. Especially now that divorce has halved my precious time with them. My sweet Charlie learning to walk and talk and play with his big brother and sister. The amazing Henry waxing poetic about love and life and the best superhero powers while casually winking "Hey, beautiful!" to me in a way that makes my heart pound harder than if he were Jake Gyllenhaal himself. Violet, telling stories and asking to snuggle and still calling me "Mama." Instead I am in survival mode. Their precious childhood moments ominously ticking away during a post-divorce haze I'm desperately trying to find my way through. WHEN THE FUCK WILL I FEEL BETTER? It feels like a slow-motion divorce while my kids are growing in fast-forward.

You know that scene in Boyhood? The scene that won Patricia Arquette the Oscar? It's how I feel all the time.

I started this blog more than ten years ago. It was the dawn of my marriage. Living in Brooklyn. Working as a producer at ABC, flush with ambition and hope. A decade later I'm facing another beginning. Not so young, not so fresh-faced, hope crushed by reality, not really even that ambitious anymore. I'm more interested in conquering myself now, not the world.

The writing isn't coming so easy as of late. I suppose I can guess why. I'm not interested in writing about my failed relationship, that horse done been beat to death. Not interested in chronicling new relationships as there are far too many feelings to consider. I've also experienced how detailing a relationship affects my own mentality. It tricks you. You can make yourself believe untruths. You begin performing and believing your own performance instead of focusing on what is actually taking place in the relationship. You blur where real you ends and Internet you begins. You become a character and you begin to believe your own bullshit. It happened to me and I am still watching it happen to others. You believe your Instagram photos. You believe Internet you.

I don't believe any blogs I read any more. None of them. I see the same symptoms in everyone who blogs. Is what you're writing reality or is it a performance? Do you even know anymore? Oh, I believe you're writing something based on an experience or emotion you've just had but once you mine those experiences for others you start to edit them, often reframing them and then you're reshaping your own memory and perception and then, well, you can convince yourself of just about anything, can't you? You can change your entire memory of an event just by writing about it in a certain way.

Blogging blurs reality and every single blogger you've read and loved knows this. And it's fine. It's a performance in the same way a book is a performance or the telling of a story becomes exaggerated and therefore a performance of sorts. It is what it is. But the act of becoming a persona based on a version of myself I inadvertently created seems unsavory to me now. Is there a way to write honestly? I don't know. I'm still figuring it out.

She Said: The Kindness Game During Divorce


She Said: Divorce and Social Media


She Said: What Defines a Single Mom?


A Letter To My Ex-Husband On Father's Day

You never really know what kind of parent someone will turn out to be.

It’s one of the hardest jobs in the world — and not everybody is up to the task. I’ve known kind, intelligent men whose personalities seem tailor-made for parenting who can’t hack it on the front-lines of parenthood. And conversely, I’ve witnessed hardened bad boys transform into gelatinous piles of mush the moment their babies are born, tackling the dad role with gusto.

Who knew what kind of father the scrappy little rock’n’roller from Philly I married 11 years ago would become? I didn’t.

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