Dreams Don't Always Come True

My whole life I've dreamed of being a Mom. What my kids would look like. Would they be little fashionistas like me or would they be musical geniuses like Tyrone (and me too LOL). I obsessed over clothes and room decor and all that good stuff. I got pregnant as a teenager and the pregnancy was terminated. I've always regretted that because that really wasn't what I wanted, but definitely thought it was necessary and didn't want to interrupt my then boyfriends' college years. Flash forward a couple years, we were pregnant again. We lost our daughter. Then we quickly got pregnant again and lost our son. Then the next year another pregnancy and yet another son lost. 3 years of marriage. 3 miscarriages. I won't share again all the deets. You can read earlier blogs for that. Fast forward 20 years, no children, no pregnancies, no answers yet an exhaustion that was abnormal. I've always suffered from very heavy periods and severe anemia. But this was different. After lots of tests, painful iron infusions, more tests, more poking, more prodding, it was decided that the best course of action would be a hysterectomy. So now as I am writing this 8 days post op, I'm filled with emotions and a little bit of pain. This extreme high tolerance of pain actually comes in handy sometimes. I know that one day soon all will be well. Today isn't the day. I know that people are well meaning when they say 'oh God had other plans' or 'you're a mother to so many'. I've said it to people. But right now, I promise I want to throat chop those who say it. I DON"T WANT TO HEAR THAT RIGHT NOW. I'm mad. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm sad. I'm emotional. I'm pissed. And all those feelings are ok. They are normal. I am grieving the loss of a dream. At 45 years of age, one week ago I had to say goodbye to a lifelong dream. I needed to get my health together. I was trusting God for a miracle, much like I'd trusted Him down through the years. SO now I pick up the pieces. And I remind myself that some dreams do not come true and that God makes no mistakes. And although I'm upset right now, I still trust Him. Even in this.

Until Next Time My Lovelies. Be good to yourself!

Smooches,

The TrelleBlazer

x

The Grind.....Why....How......What...When.....

So all day today I've felt totally overwhelmed. As I was driving home, I had the urge to blog. I haven't blogged in a minute. I promised myself that I wouldn't force things. Rather, I'd write when inspired and I wouldn't hold back. It's funny because people think that I'm very open on social media. It's actually the total opposite. I'm very selective about what I share. And I don't enjoy being vulnerable or open, mostly because it is often misunderstood. Anyhoo, as I was driving home I felt an overwhelming urge to be a bit transparent, and I immediately thought 'nope, not tonight.'.... LOLOLOL but the urge just wouldn't go away. So here goes nothing... A lot of times people will ask me "where do you find the energy? How do you do all that you do?..... I want to let you know that I am in no way a superwoman. If you follow my blogs (as infrequently as they happen), you know that early on in my marriage, I suffered 3 late term miscarriages. The years that followed were dark and full of hopelessness and despair. I went into a deep and severe depression that lasted for many years. I cannot remember the exact time that I came out of it, but I do remember that I vowed NEVER to go to that place again. Although I'm a Christian, I found strength through prayer, but also through counseling. Yep, you read it right. I saw a therapist. Fast forward many years later, and my life seemed to be flourishing. I poured myself into my work, my salon and all the things that seemed to equal success. I push myself daily. I hold myself to sometimes standards that are unattainable. I want my husband to be proud, my parents to be proud, my family to be proud, my church members that I serve to be proud. And sometimes wanting people to be proud can get you into trouble. Oddly enough, I came to a revelation in my life watching "Married to Medicine" which is one of my favorite shows. During last seasons' reunion show, Dr. Jackie was being questioned. For those that don't watch the show, Dr. Jackie has been through 2 bouts of breast cancer, desperately wants a child and has never been able to have one. She's also extremely driven. Her husband had begun to complain that she was working too much. Doing too much. And she was getting frustrated. I remember she broke down and said "nobody truly understands that there is a void in my heart from not being able to have children and so my intense drive comes from that void that is not being filled and it hurts but when I go go go, I don't have time to think of the hurt and the void'.... I sat in front of my TV and I bawled like a baby. Later I shared this with my husband, because I so related to this. And on some levels I guess I'd never really admitted this, even to myself. I go and go and go and go and go because when I'm going I don't have time to think about the void. I make no apologies for it. But, I also had to admit that it is a coping mechanism. Here's the thing about coping. Coping isn't freedom. And until I could get to a place where I stopped coping, I can never truly be free. WOWWWWWWWW. The other part is that I remember what that dark place felt like. The one I promised myself I'd never go back to. That place was so dark and painful that being alive felt like it was more punishment than death could ever be. And, so I push because I can't go back. I won't go back. I refuse to go back. However, I want to encourage someone tonight that every now and then, you've got to take that cape with the S off. It's a heavy load to bear. Healing takes place when we're honest with ourselves. Honesty is not always comfortable. You have to face hard truths. And sometimes hard truths hurt. But through the hurt, healing can take place. Your scars can finally heal.

Well, my lovelies, this was a whole WHOLE lot! And I'm tired now. But, I feel a whole lot lighter. Until next time, y'all be good to yourselves. And continue to be TrelleBlazers. I love y'all. For real!

Fat Mama Pig

I was always considered pretty, “for a chubby girl”. I didn’t really know what that meant. I knew I was happy and smart and popular. I excelled in school. I always had friends. Then when I was 6, everything changed.

I remember this day as clear as a bell.  I was at recess and near the merry-go round. As I approached a group of kids, one turned around to see why the laughter stopped and then he said, “There she is. Heeeey, Fat Mama Pig!” And the other kids burst into laughter. And, it was then that I realized some things. 1. They were laughing at me. 2. They were laughing at me because he called me Fat Mama Pig. 3. Being fat was not ok. 4. I was devastated.

The realization that fat wasn’t ok made me develop my comic chops. If I was going to be fat, I had to have an angle. Up until 10, my angle was that I was funny. My teachers loved me. My friends thought I was a riot. My parents couldn’t be more proud of me. And, I almost forgot that I was fat. Until someone would remind me.

By the time I was about 12, I’d emerged as quite the social butterfly. I was eloquent and articulate. My teachers chose me to do public speaking. At church, I was always the spokesperson for my age group. I realized that funny and great public speaking skills were phenomenal. Looking back, I wonder if these things would have naturally emerged or was it just a defense mechanism. When I read Alice Walkers, biography, that’s when I started asking myself this. In her biography, her injury caused her to retreat. My humiliation caused me to seek out other areas of validation when pretty had a qualifier.

In high school, I was the still the girl with the ‘pretty face’. I had tons of male friends and a façade of very high self-esteem and self-awareness. Yes, I was big. However, I wasn’t going to let that dictate my life. That’s what I told people. Truth of the matter is, it dictated almost every waking moment of my life. My thoughts toward myself would have been considered abusive if they came from someone else. I beat myself up. I dreamed of a life where fat wasn’t a part of my description. Even though my fatness bothered me, I never once chose to diet. Exercise was as near to an expletive as you could get.  Now that funny and well-spoken had taken me places that fat did not, a new validator emerged; clothes and quirkiness

At about 16, I decided that if I was going to be fat, I was going to be fabulous doing it. Every dollar I earned went one of three places: clothes for my body, shoes for my feet, expensive handbags for my arm. Finally, this is it! I’m admired for me. I’ve shed the qualifiers, I thought. Until, a handsome boy I’d had my eye on said the dreaded words. “Wow, you dress really nice for a big girl!”. Are you kidding me? Still, we’re on this. There was just no getting away from it. Everything I did, the validation/compliment was always, “for a big girl”. I suppose at this point, I could have just retreated into the background. Instead, as a sassy young woman in Chocolate City, I came to grips (somewhat) that ‘dammit, I’m fat and that’s that’. I never had a shortage of potential suitors and boyfriends.  My fake self-confidence said something that was contrary to what the media tells us. So many guys tell me that they’re drawn to that.

At 17, I started dating a childhood friend. He loved my body. He told me often how beautiful I was. This was different though. Not once did he ever say, ‘for a big girl’. I was just beautiful.  I loved him for that.  I stopped having to be the prettiest big girl, the best-dressed big girl, the smartest big girl, the most outgoing big girl or the most articulate big girl’. I was just beautiful. And, he made me feel like it wasn’t just my outer appearance that made me pretty.

I decided to run for Homecoming Court that year. My best friend told me she thought I was Court material, but I wouldn’t win because I was big. Against her advice, I ran anyway. And, I won. She was shocked. I told her and everyone else that I wasn’t. On the inside, I couldn’t believe it. I was in the Homecoming Court, but did not ultimately become the Queen. I told myself it was because I was fat. As a matter of fact, almost everything negative in my life, up to that point was blamed on the fact that I was fat. That had to be the only rational reason. Right?

It is the fall of 1992. I am now a student at Tuskegee University in Alabama, in the south where thick girls are celebrated. I am still dating my high school boyfriend. I meet a guy. He nicknames me “Stacks”, as in stacked like a brick house. He compliments on my body all the time. He is never ashamed to be seen in public with me.  I tell him that I am not looking for anything major. I have a boyfriend up north. I am only looking for friendship. One night after hanging out with me for about a month, he starts getting aggressive with me. He is trying to pressure me into kissing and sex. At first, he’s complimenting me left and right. Then he’s reminding me of all the things that he has done for me. I really do like him, however I am not promiscuous and am not interested in a physical relationship. I have never been with another guy other than my high school boyfriend. He is growing angrier and angrier and then he says, “You fat bitch. You think that I was doing all this stuff for nothing. You know what it is. You didn’t really think I just wanted to be friends with your fat ass, did you?” Instantly, I am 6 and I’m back on that playground and I am devastated. For the next 2 years that I’m at Tuskegee, I do not socialize much, even though I met several great guys. I am never again opening my heart to a man even for friendship for him to turn around and call me Fat Mama Pig.

1994, I move back to the DC area. My high school boyfriend and I have still been dating. We are ready to make things more permanent and more official. I genuinely love him. But, I don’t trust that he’s not going to use my fatness against me.  I make him prove his love to me over and over and over and over again.  The difference is now; I am not just curvy or voluptuous. I am rapidly gaining weight. And I am waiting on him to be done with me.  I am doing all these things while still walking around appearing like I have it all together. I am the go-to chic for all types of advice. People see that I’ve got it going on and they want a piece of it.

2006, I am now married. I have been married for 10 years to an amazing man. He never mentions my weight. He tells me I am beautiful. He touches me. He loves me. And, I HATE me. He never once calls me fat. It is almost as if, he does not notice it. That can’t be possible. I love him for this.  But, I also resent him for this. How can a man raised in America with images of beauty thrown in his face every day honestly think I am beautiful? I don’t even think I am beautiful.  He reminds me of when he first met me, at 14. And then, when he started dating me at 17. Over the course of our relationship, I have gained over 130 lbs. Yet he says “you’re just as beautiful now as you were then”. I think, ‘clearly, this man has lost his mind’.

2009, I cannot take it anymore. I am lying to myself. I am lying to the world. I talk to my doctor about lap band surgery. She is not that crazy about the idea. She challenges me to lose 50 lbs. on my own. I do and then decide surgery is not for me.  I am now a successful woman. I am a mentor to girls. I am an encourager of my friends. But, I am still fat. Slowly, but surely, I am starting to become ok with that.

2014, I am turning 40. I am comfortable (mostly) in my fat skin. Sometimes, I dream of skinny. But now, those dreams are few and far between. Mostly, I see this beautiful woman that I have become. Fat is a part of me. But, it’s no longer ME.  When people qualify me now, ‘for a big girl’, I just think that it is ignorance on their part. I sometimes worry about health and life expectancy. I am proud of the now 70+ lbs. that I have lost and kept off.  On a whim, I enter an online modeling contest to be the face of a website for the month of December. I become the face of  2014. The comments are things like “gorgeous”, “stunning”, “so confident”….and not one ends with ‘for a big girl’. And, I honestly believe it. And accept it. I am no longer Fat Mama Pig. I am LaTrelle. I am beautiful. Not for a big girl. Beautiful. Period.

Joy and Pain and Everything in Between

Hey TrelleBlazers,

It's been a LONGG LONNNG LONGGGG time. SO much has transpired in this past year. Today's blog is a departure from fashion and all that good stuff and is a little uncomfortable and dare I say deep. I was reading a piece online this a.m. about stillborn deaths. And, it stirred up a bunch of emotions. I do share from time to time on social media, but I recognize everyone doesn't like sensitive subjects. Additionally, I've been hesitant because I'm truly not looking for pity or even likes. I want to share my story to help someone. Deep breaths.....And HERRRREEEE we go.....

I was young and a new bride in an unfamiliar city. Oh, and pregnant. About 4 months into the pregnancy, I woke up with the most intense need to pee that I've ever had in my life. I didn't make it to the bathroom and there was more urine than I'd ever experienced. Two days later, I woke up with the most horrible stomach cramps. It's amazing how your body innately knows something even if it's never experienced it. I said to Tyrone, "I think I'm having a miscarriage". Tyrone thought I was jumping the gun and I kinda agreed. I decided to call out of work and stay home and rest.  Two hours later, the pain was more intense and I felt like I needed to go to the bathroom. Please brace yourselves. Moments later, I looked down sensing something was terribly wrong. There were my daughter's feet. Scared out of my head, I jumped up. There was no way I was going to have this baby at home by myself. I quickly dialed 911. In my heart, I knew she was dead. But, a part of me held on to hope. The EMT's quickly arrived. And I asked, "Is she dead". The guy just said, 'let's just wait until we get to the hospital'. My heart sank.  We arrived to the hospital and I’ll always remember the ER doctor. He was rude and heartless. I was quietly crying on the stretcher and he said ‘dry your eyes. This is a blessing. You young teen girls have no business being Moms.”. I told him that I was a married woman and he quickly apologized, but I remember thinking what difference did that really make. I was laying here with a half delivered baby hanging out of me and this man was telling to suppress my mourning. And, that is exactly what I did.

Before this experience, I just assumed that miscarriages meant that you kinda just passed the baby with minimal pain. I quickly found out that because I was 16 weeks, I’d have to go through the labor process. I was moved to a room and the hours began. About 10 hours later, I had delivered a beautiful, already deceased babygirl. I couldn’t bear to see her or hold her. My husband described her to me. Perfect was the word he used to describe her.

Life went on and now settling into married life, we planned our next child. After just a few tries, we were pregnant. And, ecstatic. My pregnancy was high risk and my doctor put me on moderate bed rest. Christmas was approaching and I was too excited to put up the baby’s Christmas stocking. On Christmas eve, I went to my doctor’s appointment. My doctor was so excited. Everything looked great. She said to me “LaTrelle, congratulations, I think we are safe now. You can breathe easier”…22 weeks in. YES. The next morning, I was walking up the stairs, and my water broke. We rushed to the hospital. They ran tests. And the news I’d been dreading was confirmed. “Mrs. Chase, the baby is deceased”. While dealing with the pain of the news, we had to prepare for the pain of labor and delivery. 10 hours later, with Tyrone and 3 friends at my bedside, my son, already deceased came into the world. Again, I couldn’t hold him or see him. But, my husband and my girlfriend did. They both described him as perfect. The doctor told me if it had been 2-3 weeks later, his lungs probably would have been more developed and they could have saved him.

Life went on, but I grew more and more withdrawn. I started feeling the familiar symptoms of pregnancy, but each pregnancy test came back negative. I accepted a consulting job in Alabama. No real periods, but positive pregnancy tests. I was sitting at my desk and those tell tell stomach cramps started. I left work and immediately drove to the hospital. Explaining my symptoms and my history, they sent me away convincing me that I was just hyper senstivie because of all I’d been through with my stillbirths. I drove myself back to my hotel. 10 minutes later, my water broke. I drove myself back and the doctor said, ‘there’s no way’.  I was rushed to an ultra sound. And, staring back at me was a baby. Not just any baby. A live baby. With a heartbeat. The doctor said “Mrs. Chase, you have a decision to make. You’re in labor. So, we can deliver now, and there is a 99.9% chance he won’t make it 10 minutes outside of the womb. Or we can  wait”. So, I waited. I waited for my child to pass away because I couldn’t handle it. I often wonder ‘what if’. However, my mental state was so fragile, I believe I would have lost my mind. I’d been through SO much. And, I really never shared my pain with anyone besides Tyrone. I never wanted to burden anybody or make anybody uncomfortable. So, I put on a mask and I lived. Except, I didn’t live. I was a walking dead person.  And, at every turn there was some person saying  that is was somehow my fault. Maybe if I had done this. Or hadn’t done that. And, every comment was like a shot with an assault rifle.

And after years of existing, I gave up. I slipped into a deep depression. Religion made me pretend that everything was ok. As long as I looked the part, nobody questioned me. So I became an expert at mask wearing. I have to say that during this time, Tyrone hung in there with me. He encouraged me. Prayed for me. Listened to me. Took the brunt of my anger. Kept the house afloat. Kept me from drowning. I can’t remember when the turning point was, but I will say when I turned my back on religion, but opened myself up to Jesus Christ (and therapy), a change took place.

I don’t have it all together. Some days, I still cry. There are many times that I question God. However, I can’t change any of it. All I can say is that I’ve been through some stuff. That had the potential to make me lose my mind. And truth be told, I did lose my mind. But with prayer and a renewed will to live and a sense of purpose, I was able to find me again. And, I guess that’s the message in all of this. We all go through stuff. And some of that stuff pushes us to a dark and ugly place. But, then we have a choice. We can’t let it bury us like a corpse or we can realize that the dirt didn’t come to bury you, the dirt came to grow you. Because you’re a seed. Remember that TrelleBlazers.

YOU.ARE.A.SEED.

grow

Am I Too Sensitive About Being Black? #nope #notevenalittlebit

This past year has been a whirlwind of emotions for me. Really, the last few years. I find myself at a crossroad. Let me start by saying this is NOT a bash of White people, Black people, purple people or blue people. I have some things I NEED to say!

This week I've found myself in several disagreements about the Syrian refugee crisis. I am not 100% sold on the idea of just opening America's borders to any refugees, HOWEVER, I am concerned with the viciousness and the meanspiritedness that I see. At some point during each and every concern, race came up. Out of all those times, I brought it up ONCE. And, frankly it was because I was sick and tired and I'd had enough. But, then I started thinking that maybe I am too sensitive..And, then I decided to put fingers to keyboard and speak my truth. The remainder of the blog is not about the refugee crisis at all.... It's the questions and answers that came to my mind.

Why is it not ok for me to talk about my Blackness when people remind me of it each and every day? Just when I bought their brand of bull that they were colorblind, they let me know, THAT IS A LIE!

So, you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it's because when I purchased a beautiful truck and it immediately started having problems with it, the general manager told me 'I know what happened here. You people do this all the time. You buy cars that you can't afford and then you make up things to get out of having to pay"

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it's because I hear more times than I care to remember, "You are so articulate"... Let me give you a hint. That is not a compliment to a 41 year old, college educated person...EVER. Why is this surprising to you? Because I'm not the illiterate porch monkey you assumed I would be.

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it's because when I went into an establishment to use the restroom and offered to PURCHASE a meal and I didn't even need them to make it because there weren't any public restrooms, a man loudly proclaimed "yea, they think since Obama became President they can do whatever they want to do"... so, you think that I want to purchase a meal that I'm not even going to eat. No, if I was doing what I WANTED to do...well, we won't go there

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it's because when I'm in a group where I'm the only Black person, inevitably after everyone else has been greeted with a 'hello", I receive a 'hey girlfriend' or 'hey, sister'.... get a dictionary. Go to sister and girlfriend. I assure you I'm neither of those to you. (I'm speaking not of people that I KNOW)

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it's because when I'm at a statewide competition sitting at a table with a group of educators and I am the only Black one, the White waitress comes over to ME to let me know that 'we're serving fried chicken for lunch'. When she sees my befuddled expression, she goes on to say "it's REALLY good and I wanted you to know". At first, I think it's not because I'm Black. It's because I'm fat. But, then I realize there are 3 other fatties at the table too...So, nah, that ain't it.

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it is because I've realized that every turn, there's a White person reminding me that I'm Black. As if, I could ever forget it.
perhaps it's because I realize that when the White person is telling me I'm Black, I'm supposed to be OK with that. But, somehow when I say, I'M BLACK. I'm a race baiter. I'm a liberal. I'm Too darn sensitive. I'm a reverse racist.

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it is because when I mention racist or racism, you get offended and start defending yourself and getting in your feelings. EVEN if I've never said White racist.
perhaps it is because you assume that everytime a Black person says racism, they are talking about you!

So you say I'm too sensitive--
perhaps it is because I have the ability to not lump you in with a bunch of crazed fools but you see me as you see every other person
and please keep your, I've got Black friends speech.
Good for you.

So, am I too senstive...Nope, But maybe I'm just a little to Black for your taste. I'm an uppity Negro. I don't pick cotton. And, I don't bow down.

Smooches and Much love~!

So much to say but really nothing to say at all

Blogging had become my outlet. I was getting into a groove and it felt good. Then, I hit a wall. I had so many things to talk about. I started so many fantabulous posts, but then I wondered....am I sharing too much? am I not sharing enough? The biggest thing was I didn't want to put out a blog JUST for the sake of saying "I posted something this week"...in times past, the blog had been organic. It just sort of became..... Well, now I'm back. Refocused, rejuvenated and ready? But, I want to know, what do YOU wanna hear? More fashion? More faith? In a sea that's overcrowded with every kind of blog you can imagine, I don't want to just be one more. I want it to be beneficial to the reader and for you to have some kind of takeaway. So comment and let me hear your thoughts... I'm ready....

Until next time TrelleBlazers, be good to yourself! Muah

Love and Marriage..... Volume 1

I decided that I wanted to do something slightly different for today's blog. I met my mate when I was 14 years old. We started dating when I was 17. We got married when I was a week away from 22.... I was young and thought I knew everything and was seriously ill-prepared to be somebody's wife AND to be 500 miles away from everything and everyone I've ever known and loved. So, almost 19 years later, people are constantly shocked when I say I've been married to the same man all these years. The 1st thing I want to say is ANYBODY that you think has a perfect marriage, please know it ain't true! I love my husband beyond measure. We have an amazing relationship. Amazing doesn't equal perfect or good all the time. We fuss. We disagree. We get in our feelings. He gets on my last nerve sometimes. I'm sure I sometimes get on his (probably not that much though...LOLOL). I could write a book on our experiences, but I thought it would be nice to get marriage talk from the male perspective. So I asked my honey to jot down some thoughts on love and marriage. Short and concise is what he gave me, however I can honestly say these words and actions are what brought us through.....

     "Marriage is about making it work with what you have and who you are.  What works for one couple may not work for another.  But if I had to pick one thing I would say in marriage,  each person has to be determined.  Determine to carry the weigh when your spouse cannot or will not. Be determined to do better when you are the weak link.  Determined to make it work when you  realize that your spouse will not change who they are.  This does not include physical abuse,  infidelity or the like.  When you say I do, mean it and keep in mind ‘for better or for worse’ comes in many ways and different than what we usually consider.    "

Tyrone J. Chase, Jr.

Well, TrelleBlazers, that's it for today. Until next time, be good to yourselves (and to those you love and are in love with!)

Muah and much Love,

Mrs. TrelleBlazer