The Scary Stairs

Let me begin by saying that I have had a fear of heights since I was four years old. I first realized this fear at Woodfield Shopping Mall in Schaumburg, Illinois when my mother wanted me to walk down the stairs with her from the second floor to the first floor. I was so terrified, I proceeded to make my way down the staircase by sitting on my bottom and slowly sliding and bopping my butt down, one step at a time.

As a young teen and later as an adult, I was afraid to walk near any railing or half-wall that overlooked the floors below. Whether it was at a shopping mall, museum or library, if there was an area where you could look down over the lower floors, I walked as far away from that railing as possible.


Open staircases, stairways without railings and spiral staircases were always a no-no for me. The minute I stepped on them, I felt dizzy and woozy and couldn't wait to get off. I was so afraid to drive over bridges that my car would suddenly morph into The White Knuckle Express as I gripped the steering wheel to the point where the blood drained from my hands. With invisible blinders on, I would stare straight ahead and do the best I could to block out the drop that existed on either side of the bridge.

When I reached my early thirties, I decided it was time to conquer my fear of heights. My strategy for accomplishing this feat was to go rock climbing with friends. On the day of the climb, I was nervous but excited. The rock we were climbing was 60 feet in height, or about five to six stories high. Once I reached the plateau I would rappel 120 feet down the other side. As I slowly made my way up the cliff, grabbing for footholds and handholds, I focused only on the next step instead of the entire climb ahead of me. After rock climbing I was able to walk near the railings at the shopping malls and tackle most staircases.

When I arrived in Germany, Mario and I entered the house together for the first time and walked up the stairs to our levels of the house. The first thing I noticed was the open stairway that came down in the middle of the hallway and lead to a hatch-like door in the ceiling. I knew right away, from previous phone conversations, this must be the staircase leading up to the bedroom. I didn't say anything to Mario but I immediately thought "Oh god, I'm never going to make it up to the bedroom."


The stairs were terrifying. After Mario showed me around the first level, he asked if I wanted to see the upstairs. What was I supposed to say? "No, I'm too scared to climb the stairs." I quietly gulped a deep breath and prayed to god he would take the initiative and lead the way. Thankfully, he did.


Mario made his way up the stairs as if he was skipping along the sidewalk without a care in the world. As he ascended the stairs, my brain was rapidly calculating how many steps I had to get up before I would have something to hold onto for dear life. For a split second, I wondered if I would look like a moron if I climbed the stairs like a ladder, holding onto the step above me as I worked my way up. Deciding the answer to that question would be "yes", I stepped up onto the first step and continued to ascend the staircase. At the top of the stairs, I prayed that my lack of grace wouldn't overtake me, causing me to fall through the hatch because I knew if I tumbled down the stairs I would have to hide in the closet for the rest of my life in Germany.


In addition to the large bedroom at the top of the stairs, Mario had created private office space for me to use for work. I was so appreciative of the office space with it's L-shaped desk, room for my computer, family pictures and a nice-sized window for fresh air that I knew I had to come up and down the stairs. In addition to wanting to be able to sleep in the bed, the upstairs office was another reason to climb the Scary Stairs.


We turned from the office to go back downstairs and I was confronted with the fact that I would have to step through a hole in the ceiling with nothing to hang onto while trying to establish my footing on the steps.

"How do you go down the stairs?" I asked Mario. Again, he stepped onto the top step, without holding onto anything, and walked down as if he was stepping off a short curb onto the street. I knew, without a doubt, Mario's method of walking down the stairs was never going to work for me and I had to quickly figure out a way to get downstairs since the only bathroom in the house was on our first level.


For a split second, I considered going down the entire staircase on my rear end, just like I did at Woodfield Shopping Mall when I was four years old. Imagine how impressive and graceful it would look to see a grown woman in a dress bopping down the stairs on her butt? I couldn't embarrass and shame myself like that so I made a compromise. I sat down at the top of the hatch-style door so my feet touched the third step down. Then I gripped the sides of the hatch and walked down far enough until I reached the point where I didn't have to hold onto anything anymore. Luckily, Mario had gone on ahead of me, rather than standing there to witness the entire embarrassing episode.


On my fourth day I was still apprehensive about the stairs but the only other option available, besides climbing them, was to stay on the first floor for the rest of my life or stay upstairs forever and be forced to wear adult diapers.That afternoon, Mario was showing me something in the office upstairs and when he was finished, we proceeded to head toward the stairs. Usually, he keeps going once he reaches the first floor, but this time he turned around, saw me sitting at the stop of the steps and said to me in a puzzled voice "What are you doing?"

"This is how I always do it." I replied, matter-of-factly. Mario is too much of a gentleman to say anything but I'm certain he thinks I'm crazy...if not for my unique way of descending the Scary Stairs, then for another reason...and he's probably right.

Arriving in Germany

The flight from New York, New York to Dusseldorf, Germany on August 9th, 2010 was relaxing and surprisingly fast for a seven hour flight. As soon as I stepped onto the huge Air Berlin aircraft I was taken back to the beginning of August 1980 and the day my fellow classmates and I boarded the Lufthansa airplane to fly to Germany. Air Berlin's aircraft was similar in size with a wide middle seating section that had five seats in each row. The middle section was flanked by two smaller seating sections on each side with two seats in each row. I walked toward seat 25K, on the left side of the airplane, and could see in my mind's eye exactly where I had sat in 1980 with the other foreign exchange students around me.

I took my window seat and a man sat down next to me. I would find out later he was traveling to Turkey and had a three hour layover in Dusseldorf. I'm proud to say that I spoke only German to the flight attendant during meals and when asking questions. The only word I used in English was "chicken" because I had no idea how to say "chicken" in German. After a surprisingly delicious airline meal of chicken, potatoes, fresh bread, green beans, lemon cake and white wine, I closed my eyes and dozed on and off for 3 1/2 of the remaining six hours of the flight.

At 7:15am, Germany time, the plane landed and I was back in Germany for the first time in thirty years. The entire summer that Mario and I had spoke on the phone and made our plans I was never nervous but, now as I waited to exit the plane, butterflies flew frantically around inside my stomach.

Mario waited for me to the left of this area.

Because I was entering Germany from another country, I had to first go through customs and collect my luggage before I could see Mario. A large milk glass partition was all that separated me, standing in the baggage claim area, from Mario who was waiting for me behind the glass. Separated only by a glass partition and a distance of thirty feet, I knew he was there but couldn't see him. Anxiousness, excitement and an enormous sense of relief the day had finally arrived welled up inside me.

Suitcases of all sizes slowly came out onto the baggage claim conveyor belt. I watched, hoping my two suitcases would be amongst the first to show up. Minutes later, I was standing there still waiting for my luggage to come out when I heard the doors open behind me. At that moment, I knew if I turned around I would be able to see Mario but I also knew how difficult it would be for me to stay in the luggage area and continue to wait for my suitcases when I could so easily leave them behind and walk through the milk glass doors. Hard as it was, I kept my back turned and watched for my luggage until both suitcases were firmly in my hands and I could walk toward the doors.

My right hand grasped the handle on my large suitcase and my left hand curled around the handle of the medium-sized suitcase. I tilted the suitcases forward, onto their wheels, and simultaneously took my first step toward the waiting area while looking up and in that direction for the first time. Immediately, I caught Mario's wide smile and beautiful eyes. He waved at me and called my name and I couldn't believe I was finally there in person....not on the phone and not on the computer, but in Germany.

Mario stood there looking as handsome and wonderful as he did the day I left Germany thirty years ago. He wore a navy blue dress jacket and light blue button-down shirt with jeans and black dress shoes. But the thing that looked best about him was his beautiful smile. Finally, the gap of 5000 miles between us closed to ten feet, then eight feet, then six, then four and then he stepped forward, leaned down to hug me and in a heartbeat I was wrapped up in his arms. Mario and I were so giddy from finally being together and finally seeing each other that we kept looking at each other and laughing and smiling. The phrase "I can't believe it!" must have been repeated by one or the other of us several times between our first embrace and the moment we exited the airport.

I sat in Mario's car, holding the beautiful red roses he had given me and we chatted and held hands as he made his way out of Dusseldorf toward the small town where we would live together. From the highway, we weaved through the winding streets of the small town until, at last, we turned down the street to arrive home. Together, finally, we were home.

Leaving America

Lost Five Pounds at Ohare Airport

No, unfortunately not five physical pounds. I wish it were that easy because an instant loss of five pounds would really make my day.

My family and I arrived at the airport at 5am, Sunday, August 8th. I checked in at the ticket counter and was promptly informed my largest suitcase was five pounds over the weight limit. Ugh! After the packing woes I'd faced and conquered, everything was squeezed into the suitcase in a meticulous and precisely planned order. What the heck could I get rid of or send back home with my kids to drop the excess five pounds? Feeling pressured by the huge line forming behind me (at 5am on a Sunday morning?!), I found two things that would solve my dilemma: a stack of magazines or a large ziploc bag full of bottles of perfume. Ultimately, I chose to keep the magazines because I love to read and already had two bottles of perfume stashed elsewhere in my luggage. The reading material won out, in a heartbeat, over smelling good.

Ahhh...the Smells of Air Travel

I have an acute sense of smell. Most of the time, I have a great appreciation for this. I love the smell of lilacs in May, the scent of coconut-anything transports me to the beach instantly and fresh food smells allow me to enjoy the food without eating it.  Morning isn't morning without the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and who doesn't love the smell of a tiny, newborn baby as you gently kiss their skin? But there are times when I would love to be able to turn off my acute sense of smell since unpleasant aromas are just as strong to my sensitive nose as the smells I enjoy.

All was fine in the terminal as I waited for my flight. Coffee shops and restaurants were all around and the smell of breakfast and coffee wafted through the air. After a short delay, I finally boarded the plane and was immediately struck by the "smallness" of the cabin. At that point, I was only thinking of my physical comfort but, shortly thereafter, I"d be thinking of my olfactory comfort, too.

The first class section was decked out with individual pillows and blankets on each seat along with a small bottle of water. "Nice touch," I thought. Then I entered the coach section where my seat was located and was immediately assaulted by The Bad Breath Brigade. Oh lordy! Bad breath at any time of the day is not a good thing but, for some reason, my sense of smell is heightened even more in the morning and the onslaught of sinus breath, garlic breath, Everything Bagel breath and coffee breath just about knocked me back to the gate. I discretely tried not to breathe as I made my way to the back of the plane toward seat 19A. Thankfully, not many people were in the back of the cabin and my seatmate was a pleasant girl with equally pleasant breath. To ensure that I did not inadvertently become a member of The Bad Breathe Brigade I made sure to have an Altoid in my mouth the entire flight. Life is to precious to have to die a slow and agonizing death from suffocation at the hands of The Bad Breath Brigade. Word of advice to travelers: Carry mints, lifesavers, lollipops or even cough drops in case of a breath-related emergency. It happens to the best of us, but please don't let it happen in a small airplane! The flight crew won't allow me to hang my head out the little window in an effort to find some fresh air.

John F. Kennedy Airport

JFK Inernational Airport

It was my first time, ever, in New York City. Or New York, for that matter. Or even on the East Coast. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a view outside the windows of the airport but the airport itself was huge with eight different terminals, more shops than you can imagine and plenty to keep a person busy. Since my layover at JFK was seven hours, I was thankful for so much to see and do.

After walking around for awhile with a 25 pound carry-on duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I was ready to find a seat and escape to the relaxation of my laptop computer. An eclectic group of people busied themselves around me as they wait for their flights, speaking in more accents and languages than I could count.  In one corner, a couple kissed for minutes on end...not a young couple, just a couple enjoying only each other despite the crowd around them. A large group of ten French-speaking people gathered around twice as many suitcases piled in a mound that closely resembled one of the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Alone stood a man, holding a bouquet of red roses. He wandered around the area, alternately looking for someone and texting. I was curious to see with whom he connected.

I had found a seat in a small grouping of about ten chairs, pushed closely together. When I sat down there, I was the only one sitting in the area...which is why I chose the location. A bit of peace and quiet and maybe some time to focus and write for awhile. Within five minutes a family of nine descended on the remainder of the area, speaking what sounded like Nigerian or Ethiopian. They were very animated with their hands as they spoke and I could tell this because I could see, from the corner of my eye, appendages flying about every which way. The group included five children who alternately ran around the seats in a make-shift game of tag, then sat down quickly when one of the adults took notice and hollered at them to sit. One little girl of about four years old, sat next to me once in awhile, peaking over at my computer.

I'd been at JFK for three hours before I was finally able to check in at the Air Berlin ticket counter at 2pm. From a seating area on the first floor, I made my way up to the third floor of Terminal 8 to check in at the Air Berlin ticket counter. Despite the fact that I'd arrived at the ticket counter fifteen minutes before it was open, the queue leading up to the ticket agents was completely full and then some. I joined the end of the line and began to people-watch as I inched my way forward. Right away, I noticed the Americans and Germans were dressed very similarly except for one man who, I never was able to determine as either German or American, was dressed in a madras plaid sport coat reminiscent of the used-car-salesman look of the 70s.

The people in line spoke a mix of German and English and, once in awhile, another language such as Italian and French would pop in. Reality struck me in the middle of the queue as it sunk in that soon, I would be surrounded by the German language more than any other language, including my native language of English. Though I had certainly considered all the changes and differences I would encounter once I moved to Germany, nothing makes those changes more real than experiencing them. Standing in the line to the Air Berlin ticket counter was a glimpse of things to come. For a second I was nervous, then I chose to let that nervousness go in favor of looking forward to all the new experiences I was about to encounter.

People have asked me frequently if I was nervous about going to Germany, especially as the day of departure drew closer. I kept saying "no." Even Mario had a hard time understanding how I could be "cool as a cucumber." But I was and I believe it's because I only get nervous about stupid, inconsequential things not worth getting nervous over or things that give me a bad feeling in my gut. Moving to Germany to be with Mario has neither been viewed by me as stupid or bad. In my heart of hearts and deep down in my soul, I know this for sure. When you are so sure of something, so sure of someone, there is no reason to be nervous.

ETA: Germany, Monday, August 9, 2010

The Summer of 2010 has both sped by like a NASCAR driver in the final lap and inched slowly along like molasses in January. Days have been filled with my work as a freelance writer, spending time with my family and preparing to move to Germany.

Daughter, Rachel & her boyfriend, John

In July, my family and I began what I refer to as "The Changing of the Guard." My daughter Rachel and her wonderful boyfriend, John, moved into the house to prepare to take over the home and become the new parents to my menagerie of furry friends. My son, Ethan, lives with them in what used to be my room. With important loose ends tied up, I was able to feel like the plans Mario and I were making were meant to be.

I started counting down the days left until I moved at Day 120. The week before I was to leave finally arrived and with it came all kinds of craziness and chaos. Four days before my flight departed, I came down with the stomach flu or had a case of food poisoning. As I lied in bed with pains worse than any of the three childbirth labors I'd ever experienced, I envisioned myself doubled over and writhing in pain in the airplane bathroom. If you've ever flown long enough to have to make a visit to the bathroom, you know an airplane is not the ideal place for you (or the other travelers) to have stomach issues. My trip, from start to finish, would last eighteen hours and I hoped, prayed and all but offered up a sacrifice to ensure I wouldn't be sick by the time the weekend arrived. Two days later, I was fine. While I'm sure stomach issues during travel would have made for hilarious blogging material (after the fact, not during!), I'm very thankful not to have had to deal with that!

When it comes to detail work, such as packing, I tend to find every excuse to stall and put it off. Not because I'm not good at detail work; but because I'm too thorough for my own good. Though I thought for a brief moment about packing the night before I left, I decided that might not be the best idea since, in effect, I was packing my whole life (or what I could take of it) for a very big move.

The Thursday before departing for Germany, my daughter stayed home from work to help me pack. "Let me try on all my clothes," I said to her, "and you tell me what looks good and what doesn't. Be brutally honest, please."

God forbid, I didn't want to arrive in Germany and have my boyfriend see me looking so horrific that he ran and hid behind the nearest ticket counter. Four and a half hours later, I had tried on every article of clothing I'd owned and gotten rid of two large trash bags full of unwanted clothing. I was so proud of myself for paring down like that and I was sure I'd have no problem putting what was left in my two small suitcases and one carry-on bag.

Brooklyn Bridge

If you believe I was able to fit everything into my luggage than I'd like to know if you're interested in buying the Brooklyn Bridge. I'm selling it for a rather reasonable price due to the economy. My suitcases were stuffed to the gills and half my clothing still sat in neat stacks all over my bed, awaiting its turn to be placed into the suitcases. I still hadn't even begun to pack toiletries or other non-clothing items. Begrudgingly, I went through everything I'd packed, weeded out even more clothing and stashed it away to be sent over later. In the end, I was able to procure a couple larger suitcases from my daughter's wonderful boyfriend. Some of my clothing still sits high on the shelf in the laundry room waiting to be brought or sent over at a later date. Fortunately, I have had two days to come to terms with that and make the decision that I will be able to go forth in life without a few shirts, pants and my favorite pair of fleecy, fluffy socks with the gray and white horizontal stripes.

Despite my still-overstuffed suitcases, I managed to pack a few things that are pretty ridiculous, no matter where you're going or what your length of stay. If I wracked my brain for hours to come up with logical explanations for this stuff, I don't know that I could be successful, so I'm just going to be honest and tell you sometimes I get an idea in my head and I have to stick with it or I get stressed out. With that in mind, here are some of the crazy things I've managed to find room for or squeeze into my suitcases and my logic for why I need them:

• Twenty or so different American magazines I haven't had time to read in the past six to eight months. I'm figuring I'll have more time there and American magazines will be hard to find in Germany.
• My "Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits" CD even though I haven't listened to it in years. I have no reason for this, logical or otherwise. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
• A small tub of wheatgrass juice powder. I'm concerned I will have a hard time finding health food stores in Germany even though my boyfriend assures me they have stores and streets in Germany and eat with a knife and fork, just like we do in America.

• An ice cube tray. Just one. It's blue. Mario doesn't have any ice cube trays and while I'm sure they sell them in Germany, if I want or need to make ice right away, I will be prepared. As a former girl scout leader I know and understand the importance of always being prepared.

It is the night before my flight and I can hardly believe I am leaving for Germany early tomorrow morning. The next couple days mark the beginning of the next leg of this fantastic journey I'm on, called Life. Rather than saying good bye to family and friends, I've chosen to say "I'll see you soon."

"Yes"

There are times in life when it's a good idea to be practical and think in logical terms. Then there are other times when practicalities and logic place limitations upon us. This was one time that fell into the latter category. So, Mario and I spoke different languages...so we lived 5000 miles apart...so we hadn't seen each other in awhile. These three factors could serve as valid reasons for not pursuing a relationship with each other or they could prove to limit us and prevent us both from experiencing some of the greatest love and happiness of our lives. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered why I had ever limited myself with such beliefs in the first place. Yes, the obstacles Mario and I would face were a bit bigger than other couples, but an obstacle is an obstacle and you choose to either work through it or let it take control of you.

When I emailed Mario and told him I had regretted the decision I'd made the summer before and wondered if he would still be interested in trying again, he didn't hesitate to say "yes." A flurry of emails lead to our first phone call ever, where I heard Mario's voice for the first time in almost thirty years and heard him tell me the words we had been too shy to say to one another in August 1980, "I love you." We made plans for me to visit Mario in Germany in August 2010. After awhile, it became clear that for me to come visit him for a week or two, then leave all over again would be next to unbearable for the both of us. So the plans for me to visit evolved, too.

Is it possible that the love you feel for someone can lie dormant for years; a lifetime even, waiting to be awakened? Or had we fallen in love for a second time? Can two people be destined to be together to such a degree that they don't need years to figure it out? I believe the answer to all of these questions is "yes."

Social protocol would have had us corresponding through email, talking on the phone and traveling back and forth to visit each other for a year or so, then spending another year deciding if our relationship was going to make it and what logistics would give us the best chance. But when you feel that you've already lost thirty years, social protocol flies out the window, along with anything else falling into the category of "What Other People Think." Sure, my children's thoughts on the situation were important and they asked intelligent, valid questions and I gave them honest answers. Without hesitation, my children told me they wanted me to be happy and if this was what I wanted then I had their full support. That was all that mattered to me.

In May 2010, after discussing the possibility of Mario moving to the United States and me moving to Germany, we decided we would give Germany a try first. The days since then have been filled with talking about important details and discussing the inconsequential little things that made us who we are. Mario and I have laughed together, he's listened to me cry, we've argued and through it all our love has grown. Every once in awhile one of us will get a reality check and say to the other, "We'll be together in X amount of days...after thirty years! It's a crazy story!" And, yes, it is a crazy story. But it's our story and we wake up each day and say "yes" to continuing this crazy story of ours.

Mary, 1980

Mary, 2010

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Mario, 1980

Mario, 2010

Facebook Friend Request

"Mario Linssen has requested to add you as a friend on Facebook." Oh my god. I hadn't seen or heard from Mario in twenty-nine years. I still had our picture from 1980 and would take it out, along with other pictures, and look at it once in awhile and think about him. But I never expected to hear from the guy who I'd decided, back in 1980, had never loved me. Now, here I was going through my email only to get the shock of my life to see Mario's name there.

Without hesitation I confirmed Mario as a friend on Facebook and shortly thereafter he sent me an email. His English was much better than in 1980, which was good because my German was non-existent. In his first email, he mentioned to me that he had looked for me throughout the years, by way of the internet and through friends that lived in America. Though he never had success in finding me, every once in awhile he would look again.

A few days later, Mario sent me a second email and, again, I was blown away by his words and feelings. He reiterated that he had looked for me throughout the years and had never forgotten about me. In one fell swoop, he stated that he remembered our feelings from twenty-nine years ago and wondered if we could try again.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. In my wildest dreams I never would have imagined Mario ever thought of me at all in the past twenty-nine years. Nor would I have believed that he remembered or even cared about our feelings for each other in 1980. He never wrote me back in 1980. To me, that pretty much said it all.

I was flabbergasted by Mario's admission of feelings and the question of whether or not we could try our relationship again. Despite my initial reaction, I decided to think about it for a couple days before I replied.

A few days later, I emailed Mario and told him that I felt it had been so many years since we were together that we were two different people now. We didn't know each other anymore, we spoke different languages and we were thousands of miles away from each other. In my mind, I could see no logical or rational way for us to have anything more than a friendship and that was what I told Mario: "I think it would be best if we were just friends."

Mario and I commented on each other's Facebook status occasionally, but other than that we didn't exchange many emails. I felt he might be disappointed with my decision not to want to try a relationship again but I was busy starting a new business and moving to another state and didn't have a lot of time think about it. Despite that, I found myself always checking to see what he had to say on Facebook and was always very happy when he commented on something I had said.

The excitement of all the positive changes going on in my life came to a screeching crash, literally and figuratively, when in late October 2009 I was in a bad car accident. It is amazing to what degree your life can change in a matter of seconds. Even though the outside world saw only my physical injuries, the emotional scars and the thoughts and dreams of the car accident turned my world upside down. And as if that wasn't enough, the downward spiral that began when my car was T-boned continued as I lost my business, my home and all my money.

By Christmas time I was so distraught and hopeless, I was finding it difficult to make it through each day. My family was over 1000 miles away and I had no support system. Christmas night I went to sleep and prayed that I would not wake up.

When I next opened my eyes, I could tell it was morning and I was still in my home in Florida. I got out of bed, fixed my coffee and sat down to turn on the computer. In the darkness of the computer screen I caught a glimpse of a reflection. The face that stared back at me was lifeless, empty, and sad...a shell of her former self. For what felt like an eternity, I stared back at my reflection and wondered how I had gotten become that person and wondered where was the real me. How had I gone from being a young, energetic, happy and successful woman to this empty tomb with the lifeless, sunken-in eyes? In that moment, I had an revelation. I knew I could not continue like that for one more day...muddling through each day, trying to muster up the will to live. I had to find that positive, optimistic, energetic, caring and vibrant person who had moved to Florida five short months earlier.

One month later, I packed a few things in my car and left to go back to my family in Illinois with nothing more to my name than the $160 gas money I'd scraped together. I wasn't sure if I could stay in Illinois permanently because I was still seeing doctors and therapists for my accident injuries, but I knew being surrounded by people who loved and cared for me would help me turn myself around.

Never under estimate the ability of love and sincere kindness to heal, both physically and emotionally. From the moment I came back home to Illinois, spent time with my kids and made the effort to surround myself with positive, loving people I slowly began to transform back into the person I knew I was. As my inner strength grew, I became physically stronger, too. As I regained my confidence and sense of self, I came to realize that I could handle my situation in one of two ways:

• I could allow myself to succumb to the circumstances that had become my life: no money, no job, physical injuries and emotional scars, or
• I could look at the situation as an opportunity to start fresh, with a completely clean and empty slate, open to the possibilities of whatever lied ahead of me and with the assurance that it could only be good. 

Without a moment's hesitation, I chose the latter and began to slowly rebuild my life. Each day I reached out to connect with people who would inspire me and encourage me. Each morning, I woke up and looked for work. Slowly, the pieces of my life began to fall into place. Though I was far from recovering, physically or financially, I was stronger emotionally and finally felt a strong sense of direction...as if I had somehow gotten off-track for several months, but was finally back on.

Each evening, I would sit down at my computer and wind down by checking Facebook. In recent weeks, I had found myself checking Mario's statuses more and more and, eventually, caught myself checking to see if his relationship status had changed from "single." This continued for almost a month when I finally said to myself "One of these days, his relationship status is going to change to 'In a Relationship' and you're going to be devastated."

For months, the regret of telling Mario we should just be friends had been building and it was time to either do something about it or let go of it altogether. After thinking about it for a few days, I sat down and wrote Mario an email.                                                  

Life Goes On- 29 Years Later

Indeed, life went on after I didn't hear from Mario upon returning to America in August of 1980. It was a sad time, one that had a very strong impact on my young life. After learning I would not be able to return to Eringerfeld by way of the next foreign exchange student trip, what little interest I'd had in school quickly waned. To top that off, problems at home that had already been occuring prior to my trip to Germany seemed to worsen once I was back. Being in Germany, with Mario, had provided me with the fresh start, the love and second chance in life I had needed. I'd been filled with hope about the possibilities of the future for the first time in a long time. Once all chances of returning to Germany were removed, the hope I'd had for the future was stripped away.

By January of 1981, I had run away from home, dropped out of high school and was quickly headed down The Path to Self-Destruction. The event that ended up saving me was one that most people wouldn't view as a positive: at the age of 18, I became a single parent to my first daughter, Samantha. To this day, I maintain that getting pregnant, albeit outside of marriage, and giving birth to Samantha saved my life. Had I continued living the way I was, I'm confident I would have been dead in my early twenties. From a very young age I had always wanted to be a  mother and knew I would be a good, loving and caring parent. The moment I suspected I might be pregnant, I cleaned up my life, discontinued any unhealthy, self-destructive behaviors and began to rebuild my life in an effort to create a future for myself and my child.

Though I was a devoted parent who cared very much for her child, I continued to lack confidence in myself and had a difficult time with other areas of my life. The next several years brought a string of bad relationships, but also brought me the gift of one more daughter and a son. I earned my GED and started my own housecleaning business which, in turn, enabled me to put myself through college. You might not believe it but, despite the bad experiences I'd had in high school, I ultimately chose to become a teacher. I wanted to make a difference in the lives' of children and in 1996 I graduated from college and began my career as a middle school math teacher.

As the second half of the 90s continued, I was on the right track with my family, had a good, solid career where I was making a difference, but was still single. I'd had some good relationships and some bad relationships. I was engaged once but ultimately decided I wasn't ready for marriage. In 1999, I accomplished something I'd never dreamed I would accomplish as a young, single parent of eighteen years old: I bought my first home and moved my family to a more rural area for a fresh start.

The arrival of the new millenium brought a decade of transition and change. I left teaching to go into business, had children move out on their own, then move back home again and took myself off the dating market for a period of seven years after surviving a horrifically abusive relationship. During that seven years, for the first time in my life, I spent time getting to know myself. My daughters were independent and had grown to be wonderful, productive young women of whom I was very proud. My son was growing into a creatively talented young man with whom I could have conversations for hours. As the first decade of the new millenium drew to a close, it was time for me to start building a life for myself as an individual, rather than as a mom.

Friendships were something I'd never made lots of time for as a busy single parent. As I worked on embracing this new phase of my life a friend of mine encouraged me to become a member of Facebook. My kids were on Facebook and that was all I knew about it. I wasn't much for social media, nor did I care to spend a lot of time on the computer. But my friend urged me on almost to the point of being a pest and, to appease him and get him off my back, I finally caved in and registered for Facebook in May of 2009. Admittedly, I enjoyed reconnecting with friends I hadn't spoken with in awhile, some not since high school. Family members I hadn't seen in years were on Facebook, too, and I enjoyed connecting with them. Then, in June of 2009, I received a Facebook Friend Request that completely blew me away.