Mother's Day For A Birthmom

Today, is Mother’s Day. It is the hardest day of the year for me because, eleven years ago, I made the toughest choice about what to do with my unplanned pregnancy. I gave my unborn daughter a fighting chance.  I placed her for adoption into the arms of a family that could give her the kind of love I knew I was not ready to give.

My father just called to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. Because he recognizes that although I do not ‘mother’ my daughter every day, I do have to live with that choice. I lie every time a stranger asks if I have kids, yet. It’s too complicated to explain for small talk. I lie with an obedient, agreeing smile when my coworkers say “You’ll want them some day.” I’ve lied on first dates, hiding this amazing truth, that I’ve brought life into this world, even if it wasn’t on purpose.

Today, is Mother’s Day. I haven’t talked to my own mother since September. We stopped conversation because I disagreed with her on Facebook. My mother is a narcissist. And today is the hardest day of the year, because I will never get the validation from her that, I too, am a mother. I may not have sacrificed my one and only afternoon this week on the couch to watch my favorite movie so that I can take my daughter to soccer practice.  I may not have spent my last dollars for her school supplies while I desperately need a new pair of shoes. I may not have had the heart ache of holding my daughter while she cries because of bullies at school. But that doesn’t mean I don’t count today.

I DO count today. I sit back on Facebook, looking for and loving EVERY picture her family posts online. I visit as much as I can and go take tours of her school. I write letters. I write blogs helping other women, or mainly just myself, get through the pain of being a mom-on-the-side. I may not be a conventional mom, but that doesn’t mean I don’t belong in this group.

I made a choice I don’t think my own mother could have made. Selflessness is not something that comes easy to her. We may not be speaking, and that is okay. I sent flowers and a little note, because to me, she gave me life. She taught me right from wrong. She hammered in the importance of working hard for what you want, and how to be independent. And for a lot of who I am, I thank her for.  It is only now, in my 30’s that I recognize she taught me those things so early on, because she did not want me to need her for much of anything.

But, we are all human, and we all need validation. I must remember that she is a narcissist and will never give that to me. As I heal, I will learn that that is okay because she is who she is and after all, she gave me the privilege of this life.

Thank you mom for the sacrifices you made. I know it must have been difficult. But I turned out okay, and made the right choice, for me, when it came time to stare motherhood in the face.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the women with children in their lives.

Hey Body! Thanks For Doing So Much Cool Shit!

January; the weird time of year where we become hyper-focused on our own bodies. Resolutions are made to eat healthier, lose weight or gain weight, perform skin masks more regularly...things that in general, make your body appear better to the outside world.

Have you ever stopped to think about the things your body has done for you? The mini miracles it performs on a day-to-day basis? You drank too much last night, yet still, your body gets you up to relieve the toxins from your system. You worked hard today, and tonight, your body will reward you with rest so you can wake up and do it again tomorrow. Your body carried you from Point A to Point B countless times this week. Your body was able to lift weights, hold babies, pet puppies, hug grandparents, and call friends. You were able to wash your hair, go up stairs, hurry to catch the elevator, stand in line (FOREVER) to check out at the grocery store, and even maybe make a grilled cheese sandwich. Bodies are pretty awesome!

Yet, when we recite a laundry list of things our bodies are capable of, we continue to punish them because we have love handles...no carbs for a month! Or perhaps our skin is sagging more than we realized...so we slap on a weird carbon mask that kind of hurts but is supposed to keep us youthful. Or heaven forbid our bodies don’t fit into our favorite pants anymore. It’s an hour run followed by a restricted calorie intake until we crash.

This. Sounds. Like. Torture.

I was retelling the story of my post-pregnancy body recently to my boyfriend. For months in and out of the doctor’s office, I was “gaining too much weight.” I needed to “stop drinking juices” and “exercise more!” For months, I was being told I was too fat by my doctor. My daughter was born over 10 pounds, no diabetes or risk there of, and I immediately lost 25 of the 60 pounds I gained during pregnancy.

I was worried this weight loss was going to take a really long time, so I immediately bought a few pairs of Spanx to help me get my shape back, and two days after I came home from the hospital, I let my mother take me on a walk to through the grocery store. As eager as I was to get my body back to NORMAL, I couldn’t even make it from the car to the front door without collapsing in tears. I was in so much pain. For the next six weeks, I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t stand long to take a shower. I couldn’t stand to make myself a damn peanut butter and jelly, let alone go for miles long jogs like I enjoyed. For six weeks, I had to be still and let all the miraculous cells repair, and rebuild.

It was the longest six weeks of my life.

But, I’ll never forget the run I went on when I was finally cleared by the doctor. I ran exactly one mile. That’s about all I could take. And I’ve never been prouder of this body in my whole life. I gave life, and could still move about and thrive in my life. In the 12 minutes and 22 seconds it took to run the mile lap, I thought about all the people who can’t move because of permanent injuries. I thought about people who are brain dead and cannot make their own grilled cheese. I thought about women who were bed ridden in their post pregnancy bodies WISHING they could get a jump start on retrieving their pre-pregnancy bodies. And I thought about how grateful I was to have these legs and these muscles and lungs and brain to help me move about and experience the sunshine that day. The fresh cut grass. The hilarity of people honking on the road to temporarily relieve their road rage. It was amazing!

Now, every time I look in the mirror and start to wish that my body looked like someone else. I remember that run. I think about those painful six weeks everytime I come across a flight of stairs. I CAN take the stairs...so I will.

I don’t want to take this body for granted. It’s the only one I get!

Eat well. Fuel your soul. Take the stairs. And remember, your body...is pretty fucking amazing.

John Mayer "Your Body Is A Wonderland"

Your body IS a wonderland. Enjoy it. Treat it well and stop punishing it for doing what you asked it to do! Run that marathon, take a walk with your mom, carry ALL the groceries in one trip because you can! Or, you know what?? Rest your body on the couch today. Do what feels good. Your body (and you!) deserves it!

Emotions And The Art Of White-Knuckling Through Them

I am a codependent. This sentence from my mouth has been 35 years in the making. And what that means, is that I hide any and every emotion that isn't happy, or happy-related. I stifle them. Shove them aside. Ignore them and let them rupture on some poor unsuspecting person, typically my partner.

What happens, is I am incapable of handling anything of my own, other than 'joy.' It's the only acceptable emotion I was brought up with. But, it's not as if I'm inept to what sadness, anger, or fear feel like. I just prefer to handle it in other people. I am attracted to others that feel ALL THE THINGS. I can solve those problems. I can solve those problems, for you.

For as long as I can remember, people have always said, “Wow, Maggi, you are always so happy!!” And when I wasn't acting particularly elated, as folks are used to seeing, they'd say things like “OH MY GOD WHAT”S WRONG?! Why aren't you happy?!” I'd feel frustrated and isolate myself because, I felt, fine. Just not, over-the-top, all Mickey-Mouse, hippity-skippy, kind of happy.

The truth is: it was over compensation for the fact that I couldn't handle any other feeling. At all.

But here's what happens when you realize you have this problem called codependency. All those feelings that you ignored for the past 35 years, Maggi, have finally come to the surface. And you can't, and won't for the sake of your recovery, ignore them. Or stifle them. You have to white-knuckle through them. Which is so awkward. It's hard. And let me tell you, it seems as if there isn't enough Advil and Kleenex to help get through it.

I cry on jogs. I cry in the shower. I cry when I'm driving. I cry when I'm eating. I cry because I accomplished something. I cry because of cat videos. I cry because I'm too angry to express how I feel. I cry like a baby because I don't know how to get what I need. And it is frustrating when I feel like I should have all of the tools to get what I emotionally need, but can't figure out how to express that need.

I am a codependent, and I don't want to be bubbling under the surface angry any more. So through therapy, and some deep, emotional work, I am recognizing that all of these feelings are just feelings. Not facts. Like clouds, the feelings will pass.

On paper it seems so easy. In real life, I'm a mess. When all of the past jealousies, hurts, fears, set-backs, and angry feelings come toppling down on me like Nickelodeon slime, I'm confused. I don't know which feeling is which. I don't know how to handle them responsibly. So I just sit in my car and cry. Or cry into my soup. Or let the shower wash away the tears. So many tears.

I don't know how long this will last. Hopefully not forever (fingers-crossed). And I pray, that as those feelings become easier to discern, I will become better at learning how to cope and ask for what I need to deal with them. Then those feelings can pass, like a rainstorm always does, and hopefully, one of those times, it'll leave a rainbow. (Yep, you guessed it, I cried just writing this paragraph).

I picked Mary Lambert's "Secrets" because if you listen to the pre-chorus, she says "They tell us from the time we're young/ To hide the things that we don't like about ourselves/Inside ourselves"

This couldn't be more accurate. I'm feeling all the feels. And for the first time, that is ok!

Trip To Washington DC: A Politics Free Political Talk

Last week I had the very distinct pleasure of traveling back East to the DMV (DC/Maryland/Virginia) area. That's part of why I love traveling...you learn about local stuff...like how that area is called the DMV. No wonder everyone is terrified of Washington! Stand in line for 6 hours just be told you were in the wrong line and then they close down for the day so you have to come back and try all over again!

The trip was pretty special and important. I was meeting my boyfriend's mother and best friends for the first time. Both encounters went smoothly and I relished in how much Chad laughed and seemed so relaxed and himself, in their presence.

But that's not what this is about. This is about Washington DC. Our nation's capital! We spent our last day in the DMV touring the National Mall which induced an unexpected emotional roller coaster. I was excited at first, admittedly, for the Instagram photo opportunities. What I was not prepared for, was the weight the momuments and the tourists surrounding them would place on me.

It was hot. Sticky. Humid. We were wet to the touch before we even got started. (Hence the frizzy hair!) There were three things I wanted to see: a museum, the WWII monument (its new-ish), and the Lincoln Memorial. What I didn't know, is that my agenda included a four mile walk one way down the National Mall. If you go, rent a bike. And go in late September when it's not so humid.

So we walked up to the Natural History Museum. This was directly across from the IRS building, so we appropriately gave the building the finger and continued on our merry way. We had to stop for a twisty cone first, because, vaction. Then meanered through 3 floors of awesome dinosaurs, gem stones and terrifying underwater creatures! There was a butterfly exhibit I wanted to see that was closed, but the Hope Diamond was there and I've never seen anything so big, and almost fake looking. Beautiful though! The air conditioning was a nice break, but unfortunately, the free museum closed at 5;30. So our walk began...toward the Washington Monument. The tallest feature in the city.

 

 As my boyfriend has walked these museums and these monuments countless times, he shared stories and fun conspiracy theories of earthquakes in West Virginia that could have been nuclear bomb testing, and explained why the monument was two-toned!











We strolled down toward the WWII memorial and I saw The White House to our right. Looking at the pictures again, the flags are all at half-staff, because we were mourning Sen. John McCain. We were not in town for the massive brigade and funeral, but I did feel a deep sense of pride the rest of the walk in our country despite what is happening inside the White House and the media frenzy surrounding it. (Notice all the people outside the gates!)





Next up, was the WWII Monument. Massive! It took up an entire city block. You could stick your feet in the water and watch the fountain spray back and forth while you take in the 56 pillars that represent the 48 states at the time and 8 territories. I didn't anticipate sitting there watching so many people with their feet in the water feeling disrepected on behalf of the soldiers who went to battle. I didn't expect to feel angry it took us so long to make this tribute to those soldiers and their families. I also didn't expect to feel united with all the people that suffered having to watch their loved ones leaved for battle. Because as this Colonel said, "This was a people's war. And everyone was in it."

Down the reflection pool we go. I now know why they call it that, because not only does it beautiflly refect the monuments, but its a good long walk to think about all the mosquitos. No, just kidding, it was a wonderful walk discussing with my boyfriend why white was the chosen color for the city. Why Martin Luther King's memorial was so small in comparison (maybe because he wasn't a president?) And how shockingly it felt like I was in an episode of House Of Cards.



The Lincoln Memorial must have been the hot touristy spot because it was littered with people. But as you walk through the crowd to climb the slippery marble steps, not one person was speaking English. It was like being in a foriegn Disneyland but I couldn't understand anything.

I felt naive and confused. Was there a test for citizenship and Lincoln held the answer? Were our immigrant brothers and sisters more interested in this country than those born here? The Lincoln Memorial was huge and a bit overwhelming. An important president, for sure. I felt mostly annoyed because people were a bit pushy to get their Instagram worthy photos. So we didn't stay long. The view was incredible, though!

I thought that was going to be the end of the walk, and we'd begin to hike back toward the car. However, Chad took me through the Vietnam memorial, and I didn't expect to tear up. The wall had the name of every American soldier that died, in order, on a surface that reflected...you. So it was like you could see yourself in every person that died. Only eight names were those of women. There was a wreath in the very center decorated with flowers, and around it, were police badges, cards and candles. The mood was quiet and surreal and I can't even write this without tearing up. There are over 58,000 names on that wall. There is a special book you can look up a relative or friends name, and find out what panel it is on. (I think this one just hit a little close to home because Chad and I had just watched Platoon, the Charlie Sheen film written by Oliver Stone...Stone wrote it based on his experience in Vietnam. The movie was terrifying, eye opening and heart breaking all at the same time because the soldiers saw some gnarly shit in war, and then came "home" to some just as gnarly bull-shit)

We had a comedy show to perform in that night, so we skiddadled back to the car. On the way out,

 
Chad detoured so we could go see the famous Ford Theater. It was closed, but appeared like you could go inside and take a tour to see where our 16th president was assassinated. Chad said "Now we've seen where two presidents have been shot," referring to our earlier trip to Dallas this year.

 I laughed and said "Is that our thing? We go see where presidents are shot?" "Well, there were only two, so I guess we're done with that." It was just the laugh I needed.


History is pretty remarkable when you get to see it and experience it. Plus, it's so much different in context as an adult when you can think and feel for yourself. My takeaway? Despite how dark some moments of our US history have been, I'm proud of us. I'm excited to be an American. And I think that we can continue to grow and own up to our mistakes and shine. America. Fuck yeah.

I picked Toby Keith "American Soldier" because I think every citizen is a soldier. I super appreciate and am grateful for the men and women that put their lives on the line for my freedom, but I also believe that citizens have a responsibility to stand up for this country and our culture and values. Vote. Vote with your money. Vote with your voice.

Authenticity: Real Talk

This year has been full of a lot of...training. I've been taking many steps to not only get better at my craft(s), but also get better at loving myself. Acting classes, workshops, voice acting coaches, reading any article I can get my hands on, studying comedy and stand up, practicing, and therapy. Lots of therapy.

The one common thread that weaves through all of these teachings is authenticity. Be Yourself.
Jesus, what a mind fuck that is. Right? Because we grow up doing as we're told and paying consequences for when we fuck up. We grow up learning how to do and what to be as society/family expects us to be. How do we even know who we are or how to be, authentic?

But what I've found in life, and in art, is that people like people who are themselves. Even if they're an asshole. (Perhaps we limit how much time we spend with that Uncle Asshole, but you still love them.) Because if an asshole is authentic, somehow we are drawn in. Their behavior is real and we don't get the feeling that we are being sold something.

I find that Drew Barrymore is a great example of just...being herself. She has a past with alcohol/drugs and a rough upbringing, but no one worth a damn is shaming her for it. She owns it, learned from it, and keeps going, growing and creating. It's pretty damn magical. And you can see it in her face in every photo and every movie role she plays. Every character is just an extension of Drew. Its so...authentic that we get lost in the rom com for 90 mins and love every second of it.

Authenticity, to me, means embracing every part of yourself. Owning your mistakes and not blaming others when you can't face your fears. The key here, is not blaming others. I feel like I've taken another step deeper into my true self when I realized that my mother is not to blame for my life.

Here's an example:
When I first moved to Los Angeles, I didn't have a car. I somehow managed to scrape together some cash and bought a crappy-looking-but-fun-to-drive 1999 Camaro! Not practical and terrible on gas, but I didn't care, it was mine and I loved that car! I drove down to Orange County to spend time with my mom, and this particular trip she wanted to run lots of errands and make all of these trips. I drove home in intense stop and go traffic and the entire day was too much for my little green monster and it over heated. It would continue to do that on and off for weeks until I fixed the radiator (which didn't fix anything) and then eventually had to scrap the car. (Mostly for parking tickets but that's another story).

My  mom came to visit in Los Angeles recently and again, we had a day of driving around, running errands and having lunch...just putzing around; this time in my 2006 Honda Civic. The day she went home, my car started making sounds that the transmission is about to blow up. I've been calling her the car-wrecker for weeks now. But you know what? None of that is her fault! HAHA. It's crazy coincidence. I need to face my responsibilities and take care of my shit. My mom, the car-wrecker, is still pretty funny. But I won't let that previous anger prevent me from taking care of my business.
Authenticly me. Making jokes about something that is kind of a bummer to have to deal with, but I'm dealing with it!

You cannot expect other people to help you avoid your responsibilities. Ask for help in facing them or ask for help in dealing with them, whatever that looks like. Can I borrow cash? A car? Im scared I need a hug, please.

And no one expects you to be perfect. You will make mistakes. Own them. Apologize when you realize what/why you made a mistake and then learn and grow from them.

I had to pick Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" because she right up top owns the shit. "I stay out too late, I go on too many dates...but that's what people say." Which they say, but she's not denying either. Because the haters hate and its not going to bother her anymore. Authentic. And Real. And Beautiful.

Who Celebrates A Two Year Moving-To-Los-Angeles Anniversary Anyway?: Me.

My Two-Year LA Anniversary is this month. Someone asked if that was a big deal, I didn’t hesitate. It IS a big deal.

January has been quite the month of reflection for me. When I think back to two years ago, I remember I had locked myself in a bedroom for 3 days for fear that a man who claimed to care for me, would physically hurt me. The emotional and financial damage had already been done.

Two years ago I didn’t have cell service or a working car. Two years ago, I had late payments due on all of my bills and a foggy memory of the last time I had performed stand up comedy. I had no idea when or how I was going to get to my dream of moving to Los Angeles to pursue stand up comedy. Two years ago...I was dealing with this.

I’m resourceful and recognized what I did have...friends. I leveraged the power of social media to send out an SOS to get me out of danger. I posted that I needed help and the encouragement poured in. Friends, family, and even fans I didn’t know offered their airline miles, small amounts via PayPal, and one even called relatives near me to come and get me.

Luckily, I got out. Not untouched...but I got out.

Looking back on being in LA for two years: I’ve managed to do quite a bit. I’m proud of the places I’ve been, people I’ve met, stages I’ve told jokes on, the progress, the hard work and the memories I’ve made. I’m even proud to tell the story of how I am a domestic abuse survivor, because not everyone is so lucky. I am not so ashamed anymore to tell the story of locking myself in a bedroom for 3 days...because it just makes the last two years more impressive. To me at least.

So, is a Two-Year-Anniversary of moving to Los Angeles a big deal? It is to me...until it’s been three.

I chose Alanis Morissette's "Thank You" because I am grateful to those people who reached out, those who still do, anyone who will listen to me try tomake sense of it all, and continue to cheer me on. Thank you.

I Don't Believe My Body Belongs To Me

I don’t believe my body belongs to me.

I started seeing someone, kind of on the hush hush; it’s been a really enjoyable secret. Our public outings rarely see much PDA, which is fine because despite the size of Los Angeles, this town sees and knows everything and likes to gossip ad nauseum. Despite my very public persona, I am not ready to be the center of gossip.

One evening, we were out at a bar that I’ve been to several times, enjoying some live music. I’m no regular but I do recognize a handful of people who are kind and welcoming.

Every single one of these people, all genders, touched me in a way that I suddenly felt very strangely about. A man,  accompanying me on an outing, was surely watching me interact, and normally these hugs that sometimes meant a kiss on the cheek, a lingering waist grab, extended hand holding, shoulder grooming, hair fluffing….and did I mention another kiss on the cheek…surely these moves must have made him uncomfortable. Because I felt that my body,  and all its secrets,  I reserved for him, yet suddenly, it was not mine. It belonged to anyone that felt they wanted to comment, flirt, or just touch me. (I mean, my hair is amazing, I get it…but do you need to touch it to believe it’s real?)

In that evening, I became acutely aware of how my body was not my own.

Could I just be projecting my insecurities on to a new person I’m trying to impress? Perhaps. But here’s another example of how my body, NOT in my date’s presence, doesn’t belong to me.

I walk into my place of business and am greeted by a sales person who comments on my short shorts, “Damn girl, those legs for days!” accompanied with a lingering hug.

My body is not my own.

Other female comedians have grabbed my hands and wrists just to share a discussion of our sets.

My body is not my own.

I finished a speech at a Planned Parenthood fundraiser and men and women would hug, put their hands on my shoulders, or hold my hand to share their similar experience.

My body is not my own.

I walk into my mother’s house and she comments on how healthy or thin I look.

My body is not my own.

Friends will say “Your face/arms/neck/stomach looks so thin!”

My body is not my own.

This amazing body moves about different spaces, stages, stores, homes, mountains, sidewalks, parties, concerts and yet, simultaneously, it is as if it is free to be touched or commented on at any time.

How can this be? After all, I am the one that walks around in it controlling where it goes. I am responsible for this body. I feed it, clean it, exercise it and dress it regularly. I am the one to take care of this body and yet, somehow, my body is not my own.

And that is some bull shit. All that care...is a lot of work.

To take back my body may mean complete isolation, which would be awful for the soul that this body carries around. The only thing I can think, is how much more aware I am when I touch or comment on other’s bodies. “Girl, I know you’ve been working hard…you look great!” or touching a waiter’s arm to get a closer look at his awesome tattoo may not be the best way to connect to another human. I don’t know what the best way is…but everyone is different. And I can  at least ask.

Because your body belongs to you, and how you take care of it isn’t up to me.

Olivia Newton-John "Physical"

I couldn't really find any songs that had to do with the topic on hand, so anything body-related was going to take the cake. There are so many songs about women wanting to get-it-on, which is amazing. I chose Olivia's song becase the music video is one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

As an after-thought to this writing, I cannot imagine the frustration plus size people feel. They take care of their bodies too, but now suddenly these bodies are not just portals for connecting with other humans, they are the targets of negative comments and inappropriate grabs…and not just on the body itself, but how that individual chooses to take care of that body.