Feb 202015
 
Shocked.

You’ve seen these faces before. I’m sure you’ll see them again.

My philosophy about sex talks with kids is to be open, honest and matter-of-fact, so they won’t sense that shame and sex are intertwined and so, when they do become interested in exploring their sexuality, they might be motivated by love instead of blind curiosity. I want them to take sex seriously enough to know it’s holy. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

My reality is that I AM STILL LEARNING THAT STUFF. This makes me a shaky-at-best sex teacher. So whenever my kids ask about sex- I panic and then just start saying crap. I just start saying all the things. Far too many things, Craig suggests. Last night I was sitting at dinner, minding my own business, when my middle child said the following words:

“So, how you get a baby is you pray for one, right?”

Craig’s fork froze mid-air and I looked at him and then at my girl and I just wanted to yell: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, CHILD???  Don’t you remember when I said all the hard words like penis and vagina and union and consent to you???? PRAY? SWEET JESUS ON A BICYCLE — DOES NO ONE IN THIS DOMICILE HEAR THE WORDS THAT COME OUT OF MY MOUTH?????

But I did not say those things because I am an official, card-carrying Parenting Expert. And so I said: “WELL, I suppose praying might have something to do with baby-making, sure. But, you know, even if you  pray to win the lottery till the cows come home,  you’re not gonna win unless you also BUY A TICKET. Making big things happen requires PARTICIPATION.”

I thought that would take care of the whole sex thing because apparently clear, open and straightforward means speaking in strange parables and metaphors. But judging by the faces of my people, nothing was clear. All the children, plus Craig, plus the dogs, were quietly staring at me. Even the guinea pig suddenly looked confused. [OH SHUT UP, GUINEA PIG – YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! ALSO, WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING ALIVE? YOU ARE ONE MILLION IN GUINEA PIG YEARS!!!! LET GO! GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT! GO WITH GOD, ROMEO!!! FOLLOW IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF YOUR NAMESAKE AND ROMANTICALLY EMBRACE THE GREAT BEYOND!!!]

The point is that Team Melton looked puzzled. And so while they stared at me, I imagined them explaining to their future spouses that, since they felt ready to be parents now, it must be time to travel into town and purchase a ticket to win a cow. I tried to clarify:  “So you can pray, but in order to make a baby, what has to happen is that a man’s penis has to go inside a woman’s vagina.” (Now is when my oldest child covered his ears, slid under the table and started rocking back and forth and repeating: I’M GOING TO DIE I AM GOING TO DIE  MOM STOP TALKING MOM WE’RE EATING MOM I AM GOING TO DIE) But I warriored on because that’s what I do. I am a TRUTH TELLER AND TERROR SPREADER. “But that’s not the only way to make a baby. Now scientists can also take a woman’s egg and a man’s sperm and make a baby in a small plastic, like, container, dish thing. That’s another way.”

By now they were still staring, but their mouths had all gone slack, too. Chase was still chanting under the table. BUT I WARRIORED ON.

“The thing to remember is that sex is a special thing for older people who love each other deeply and are committed to each other. Like married.” Oh God, this part is tricky. Tricky, tricky, please don’t ask anymore questions.

And then my YOUNGEST said, “Well, if it’s the penis thing, then you don’t have to be married. You could just walk up to anybody and say: HEY: DO YOU WANT TO PUT YOUR PENIS IN MY VAGINA???”

This is when I was able to tell, just by his tomato face, that Craig had officially stopped trusting me to drive this train. Which was understandable but honestly man: don’t tell me with your face that there’s a problem UNLESS YOUR BRAIN HAS A SOLUTION. Craig’s solution was to put down his fork and say, over and over- one thousand million times. “NO. No, no, no, no. Nope. No. No. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. No, honey. No. You DON”T SAY THAT. YOU DON’T EVER, EVER ASK THAT, AMMA. No. Nope. No.”

After No number one billion I decide to take back my train.

I say. “The thing is, there is a lot more to say about this. This is a long, lifelong conversation. (“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” the boy adds sub-table. “NOOOOOO MORE!”) “YES. MORE. This is important. Sex is a grown-up, beautiful, wonderful thing that is about love and commitment and is NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF. I also want to add that if you repeat to your friends anything we’ve said here, I will not only deny having said it- I will also deny that you are my children. ” As a parenting expert, I know that it’s important never to send mixed messages about shame.

Then I put us out of our collective misery by saying: LET’S GET BACK TO THIS ANOTHER DAY. How bout that?  “YES,” they all said. “Or never,” the tween added. “Maybe we never, ever get back to this. This is not your best work, Mom.” True, I said. But it’s not my worst, either.

When I went to tuck my middle into bed a few hours later, she said: “Mama, remember dinner?”

Yes, I remember dinner and I remember the Alamo and likely they were equally disastrous.

“Well, Mom, I am imagining that my head is a house. Way up here is the attic. I am going to put that story about the penis and the vaginas and the plastic containers up here in the attic. I’ll know it’s up there if I need it, but I don’t want to see it out laying around the house. Okay?”

WEIRD CONFUSING PARABLES AND METAPHORS! YES! THAT’S MY GIRL!

What I’m saying here is: That went well. Some things don’t get easier. Some conversations are hard and awkward and imperfect and all we have to do is keep having them anyway. Tweet: Some conversations are hard & awkward & imperfect & all we have to do is keep having them anyway. http://ctt.ec/nNws9+ @momastery

Carry On, Sexy Warriors.



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
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Feb 182015
 

Amy and I asked you to send us your stories, to let us be your witnesses. You trusted us. We read, we cried, we breathed in your pain and courage and out love and peace to you.  We signed every story. Your stories have been witnessed. It all happened. You are seen and believed. It all happened. It’s true.

We cried a little. Then we burned your pain to ashes. Your pain was so beautiful- going up in flames. Warming us, scaring us a little, even. Your pain was bright and it smelled like marshmallows. Then it was cool. Cool ashes can’t burn us. Tweet: Your pain was beautiful, going up in flames. Warming us-scaring us, even. Then it was cool. Cool ashes can’t burn us. http://ctt.ec/35Z41+

These are our stories. Below are our words.

letters

So that boy told me I was fat, and I believed I was fat. And then little by little, I did get kinda fat. I was teased mercilessly, and it hurt so much.

You let me down

When I found the courage

To tell you what had happened to me.

What these men had done to me.

What they took from me.

You swept it under the rug.

You never spoke of it again.

You never even told dad. I don’t understand.

IT STILL HURTS.

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 I would love to work with other domestic abuse survivors. I would love to one day tell my story without crying. One day I’ll tell my story and it will bring strength to others like me. God gives beauty for ashes.

It was hard to carry a baby expected to die.  Everyone asks, what are you having? What are you supposed to say?

I don’t love my husband.

      In fact I don’t think I ever did.

        In fact, I’m certain I never have.

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I learned how to give a blowjob at ten. By eleven, I was an expert.

Even now, all these years later, I can still feel his cold eyes on me.

I fear I’m weak. I fear I’m selfish. I know I’m a bad person. I know what the right thing to do is but God help me, I don’t want to do it.

I’m not sure I’ve ever written that word down before. God, how that hurts.

Thank you for this gift. I’ve been waiting for it since I was ten years old. Thirty-four years is a long time to wait.

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 I was a ten-year-old being put in a girdle. Now I wear Spanx. Please God, help me love myself.

For most of my life, I feel like I’ve been let down by people.

I guess what I mean to say is that I want to be the person I used to be. A baby I loved was taken from me. My body failed me. My community of support failed me. I wish these things had never happened.

Man, it took such courage for me to go see that damn counselor.

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I honestly think I shouldn’t have had kids. It’s too hard. It’s just way too hard.

I think I’m addicted to my shame.

I have so much to offer the world. Mostly Love! A deep and true love for everyone I encounter. I don’t want to be famous, I just want to be respected and admired only at a level deep enough that it would make it worth something when I told someone that I care, I love them, I see them, and they’re not alone.

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I listened to your Ted Talk while I drove my husband to rehab.

And all I can think of is that I shouldn’t complain. Other people have bigger problems. I’m going to send this anyway, though.

I’m afraid if I start crying, I’ll never stop.

Please burn this and pray hard for the children who suffer from this disease. And for their parents. And for the others like me who do our very best to make it all go away.

My husband and I are 5 months into therapy. I am painting. I am present. I know me and love me again.

I wonder when in my life I’ll be able to be ME out in the open. I fear the answer is never. I fear Christians.

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“Come here,” she said, and beckoned me beside her.

I flew to her side as she moved the covers to let me snuggle next to her.

“Want to learn to sew?” she asked.

This is what heaven feels like.

The love of a mother.

It is both a blessing and a curse to feel things so deeply.

I started thinking of all the things to write in the shower after reading your post. Do all of your twisty thoughts happen in the shower, too?

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 All he does is get home and check out. All he does is play his playstation. I want to be seen.

She’s been dead for twelve years this February…and it still FEELS.

I carry mace in case my husband loses his shit again.

You know what? I just wrote a very painful three page letter to you. When I was done, I stopped crying. Then I burned the letter myself in my fireplace! And now, for some reason, I’m laughing.

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I waited on him hand and foot. Then, by December he was healthy enough to start cheating again.

I was lost, hopeless, scared, hurt, and felt less than. Not anymore. The ashes are cool. And they can’t burn me anymore. Life is amazing.

You both are the only witnesses to this admission of mine. For this opportunity to be heard, prayed for, and transformed into cool ashes with the chance to rise again like the Phoenix…I cannot express my gratitude enough. From the bottom of my scarred, strong soul: thank you.

G, does God really love me? Does God see me? Is God real?

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Letters are still coming in, and we are still reading. There is no deadline. We will read your stories every night through lent and beyond.

To ashes you fell and from ashes you will rise.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

–e.e cummings

G and A



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery community on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Pinterest


Feb 102015
 

On Envy

Dearest Glennon:

I’ve been writing this letter in my head for a while now. See, I write a lot in my head. I used to write a lot on paper too, but then the monster came back. The one that tells me “You can’t. You’re not good enough. You’re not WORTHY of making a mark, much less leaving one. Be small. Be pleasing. Be other than who you are.”

You see, I think we’re sisters. Not Sister, I know, but kindreds in this life; in grief, in joy, self-loathing and self love. When I read your work, I see the work I could/can do when/if I’m brave enough. If I could give the monster a public F$#% YOU instead of private pleadings and begging bargains. At first, I’ll admit, I wanted to dislike you. Because I am envious. Envious of seeing you thrive knowing our monsters are kindreds too. That you can keep yours at bay enough to brave the world. And mine, despite all the work I’ve done, still keeps me from acting. When is the work enough, I ask?

My first exposure to you was after Robin William’s passing. That entry of yours was lifted straight from my soul. My husband said almost the exact same thing to me that night that Craig said to you. And I had the same reaction. I tried to make him feel better (because that’s what I do) but inside the monster smiled. “See,” he said, “I’m never really gone. This respite is a gift I’ve given you – not anything you’ve done for yourself. And you are mine to claim when I decide the time is right. If I can take Robin, I can certainly take you.” But when I saw your post, I knew. Knew the monster was lying again, as he’s wont to do. But why, why do I believe him anew? How do you keep from believing yours?

And then you offered the amazing parenting workshop with Susan Stiffelman. Which was beautiful and perfect in timing and content. Somewhere between those two connections I decided that jealousy would not win. That I could love you and the piece of the pie you’re claiming, knowing I will not go hungry. I know that in 85% of the areas in my life, I am fat and full. But in the space where my desire is strongest–writing–I forget. I get sad and solitary – both of which strengthen the binds that tie my tongue and block my flow.

But I KNOW that your success is my success and that of all of us. So thank you for being one of my lighthouses – for your work, your light, your honesty and your grace. Thank you for speaking my words and heart when I cannot, and for putting yourself out there so that those of us whose doors are darkened from time to time by the monster can see that we can prevail, though the victories may be small and daily. Because when you rise, I rise. We all rise.

If you have the time, I do have advice to ask. How did you get brave enough to do this work? To quiet the monster, write and write some more. How did you make this less scary? How do you claim your truth and purpose? I’ve tried everything I know – bought every book – read every blog.  In almost every other aspect of my life I’ve banished him. But this is the most mushy, truthy part of me and this is where he’s taken up residence and is stubbornly refusing to leave despite my wanting him gone. I want the sweetness that permeates the rest of my life to fray the edges of fear in this area and I want to be brave – today – tomorrow and beyond. I want to be big. Big like Glennon.

Again, thank you sister. Thank you kindred.  Thank you G.

xo
N

Dearest N,

I’m not going to answer your questions. I’m not going to give you advice, because you already know everything. Whatever the hell enlightened means, I think you might be that. You are my absolute favorite kind of person. Because: You wrestle with monsters and WIN.

Depression and envy — those are two of my monsters — so I know how tough they are, how slippery and sneaky and nasty.

Do you know how many people allow envy to keep them from love, connection and their work?  Do you know how many people just dance on the edge of envy? They see it there on the floor of their heart but they turn their back on it. They pretend: “I’m not envious.  As IF.”  They roll their eyes. They join some others to snicker and snark. What they are doing is giving up. They are giving up on creating and settling for criticizing. I know what they’re doing because I’ve been one of them. We are afraid to look at beautiful things because we are afraid we are not beautiful.

You are different.

You saw the envy on the floor of your heart and you acknowledged it there. Then you dove in. You swam around. You found the gifts below envy’s surface — which are gratitude and the path to what you were made to do.  Two true things about envy, N:

1) Envy is just unexpressed admiration. It’s respect holding its breath. Tweet: Envy is just unexpressed admiration. It's respect holding its breath. http://ctt.ec/o8bM2+ @momastery
2) We are only envious of those already doing what we were made to do. Envy is a big flashing arrow pointing towards our destiny.

Why do we run instead of follow? You didn’t run. You dove in and swam around and claimed envy’s gifts and then you climbed back out.

AND THERE — still dripping from your swim — you saw the monster waiting for you. He laughed at the gifts you were holding. He told you to hide them. He told you not to write a letter, nobody’d read it. It’d never be good enough to touch another heart. And what did you do? You refused to engage the monster. You just slipped on by, clutching the gifts from the water , insisting they were real.  He didn’t follow you. He can’t. Movement is his kryptonite. Depression and envy are  like toddlers — they can only win if you stand still and argue with them.  Tweet: Depression and envy are like toddlers- they can only win when you stand still and argue with them. http://ctt.ec/qaU0E+ @momastery

And so, soaking wet and still clutching your gifts, you side-stepped the monster and you sat down and wrote this letter. You wrote like a girl who knows she HAS A GIFT TO SHARE. And I, sitting in a lonely hotel room, read it. And N – I just think this letter is one of the best damn things I’ve ever read. So true and kind. Gorgeous.

You’re done, my dear. You beat the monsters today — and the thing about monsters is that once you know how to beat them once, you know how to beat them every time. Monsters are persistent but not at all creative. Just not at all. Over and over again we say to them: Ah, yes, I see you there. Now if you’ll excuse me – I have to go do my work.

N, sometimes I look for my sunglasses for twenty minutes before figuring out that they’re on my head already. This is like that. You are looking for courage and freedom and BIGness and your problem is not that they are elusive: your problem is that they are already on your head. You are already those things.

Sister Warrior: You are already free.

N, I’ll end this letter with something that you  know already. My bet is that you’ve known this since you were nine years old:

YOU ARE A WRITER. So just keep writing. If you don’t know what to write, keep writing letters like this one. Just write letters to people you love. Tell them what you love about them and what you’re afraid of. Turn the letters into a book. Turn them into the story of you. You are a really good story, N.

 All my love and respect and admiration,

Glennon

P.S. N: Please write an essay called “Fat and Full.” I’ve never read a woman who uses those words to describe herself at her best. You claimed those words – fat and full – and when you did I held my breath and reread and reread and reread that sentence. And then you ended your letter with “I want to be big.” You want to be big, N. I want to want to be big – but small is how I know to be loved. So the truthiest truth is that I still want to be small. Tell us how to WANT to be BIG AND FAT AND FULL and loved, too. Go there. You know that and we need to know that. Love you forever. I’ll be here in Naples, cheering for you — with a houseful of kids and a mindful of monsters, doing my damn work anyway.



Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery community on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Pinterest


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