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I'm not ok & that's ok.


This is the Molly most of you see. All dolled up and has (most) of her shit together.

What you don't see is the Molly who is still struggling. Still searching. Still trying to get out of bed every day. Still trying to make ends meet. Still trying to keep her shit together, and not loose her cool as a single mother struggling through a divorce with a man she thought she would love forever, correction whom she WILL love forever.

What many of you don't know is I come from a divorced family, with an alcoholic as a father, whom hasn't been an active father role since I was 13. I spent many weekends not wanting to go to my dads as a young child, and have many memories of him drinking those weekends away + my parents fighting about it all after the fact. I even have one vivid reality that haunts me to this day, as I creep up on my 30's.

"I was all of 10 years old, when I was staying with my dad. It was a Friday night + like any other Friday night we were waiting for the new episode of 'Charmed' to come on. (If you don't know the show I'm speaking of, don't worry the remake is coming out soon) but I was exhausted from cheer that week and kept dozing off on the sofa. My dad told me to fall asleep and promised that he would wake me in time for our favorite show. Usually I didn't believe the words that slurred from his lips, but in this moment he was sober. For the first time since my toe head blonde self could remember. In my eyes drunk = lies, so then sober must = truth.

Hours passed as I snored away the evening with my jet black doberman, whom I had grown up with, laid on top of me as my protective blanket. A car door slammed, startling me from a dead sleep. I woke up, in a cold sweat panting like the dog that lay on top of me. I glanced at the clock. If my sleepy baby blues read correctly, it was 11:45pm. Almost 2 hours passed showtime. However will I know what spell the sisters cast this week? (this was well before DVR). I wondered upstairs looking for my dad. I checked out front to see if his white F150 was the door I heard slam. Must not have been, it was gone. It wasn't even here.

I climbed another staircase leading to the bedrooms to see if he had fallen asleep too. His bedroom was dark a night, yet left empty and cold. My heart rate begins to race, as I now realize I am home alone. I've never been left alone. I go back downstairs, to the kitchen to grab a class of water and as I open the fridge I see it. Sitting there, in the middle of the top rack while the light illuminated its green bottled neck shape. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't fucking believe it. (I'm sure if my 10 year old self knew how to use the word fuck she would have, here in this moment)

There I was, all alone in the house my mom and dad raised me in.

There it sat, the reason they divorced 3 years ago.

A six pack. A rolling rock six pack.

I instantly hit my knees as tears fell down my sweaty face.. I thought he was different. I thought he had changed. I thought he was sober. I thought he was going to wake me. I thought we were going to watch our show together.

Yet here I am, and there it was.

Once again, he had chosen alcohol over me.

I called my mom in a panic. I waited as long as I could hoping he would return home, so I wouldn't have to call her. I knew if I called her, I may never see him again. This wasn't our first rodeo. He was walking a fine line already with his disease and trying to parent me. I remember one evening, on our drive home he almost took off my passenger side mirror as he swerved off the road onto the sidewalk hitting a couple garbage cans + a mailbox.

With my voice cracking and my tanned legs trembling I tell her what happened. I can feel her energy shift through the phone. As she tries to calm me (and her damn self) I walk as far as the piggy tailed landline cord would let me in the loving room, as I saw headlights beaming in.

My mother said "I will be there in 10". As I hung up, I stood the in middle of the living room, at the age of 10, feeling more like a parent waiting for their child during curfew, than a little girl waiting for her daddy to wake her up."

As he stumbled out the truck and up the drive with a trashy brunette on his side,

I realized he had done it again. First he chose alcohol over me, and now he was choosing a strange women over me..."

I have always loved writing, but most things I have kept personal. Until this blog.

This blog has been a outlet, a source, a way of journaling, my own personal therapy. I am always honest, real + raw with you, but recently I feel like you are still only seeing parts of me. The parts I am strong enough to show. What you just read was something I wrote back in high school for an English assignment that I have kept all these year to hopefully fulfill a life long dream of mine one day, of writing a novel.

In a world where we paint picasso's on Instagram, and only let people see the side of us we feel is worthy enough.. I want to be different. I want to break that mold. I want to be unapologetically me, as scary as that may be. I'm not always strong. I'm not always okay, and that is ok.

Going though my own divorce, for different reasons, I can't help but reflect and compare with what my mother must have felt. What she must have witnessed, endured, and tolerated. Before cell phones, before gps, before getting along with you ex husband was acceptable.

Which, who would want to get along with a man who endangers your child? I don't blame her.

I have been very open about my divorce, though it has taken me a lot of time to be completely honest. And that's okay. I'm working through it all. At my own pace. However it is now public knowledge that my ex cheated on me and unfortunately it wasn't just once, it happened multiple times.

Ever hear the saying "You don't know how you would react until you're in those shoes?" Well let me tell you, these white little booties (it's all I seem to wear now days, no really I have 4 pairs) didn't fucking move.

I wanted to run, I wanted to flee. But all I could do is stay there, with him beside me.

I tried so hard, as hard as my little heart could back then. I didn't hate him, I actually loved him more, and wanted him and I to work it out even more. I thought we were going to be a testimony for other couples. I thought this was God working through me.

On the inside I was broken. I was devastated to my core. My daughter wasn't even one yet, and I was still a walking mombie. I was always the strong one with my shit together. Shit, I was in the middle of opening my first salon the second time he cheated on me. Thanks to social media, society, and my lack of real friends I put on a mask and braved the wilderness moving forward.

I would look forward to putting my daughter to sleep, as I would sit in her nursery in the darkest of dark nights, with the glow from my cell phone illuminating her sweet face as she nursed. In a home I thought I would live the majority of my life in, in a town I thought I would live forever in.

I would play the song "Oceans 'where feet may fail' " by Hillsong over and over and over while crying and crying and crying. I'm actually playing it again now, looking like a black mascara mess. Still unsure of the whys. The hows. The whats.

Why me? Why my family?