Let's see if I can remember how to do this blog thing. I have been wanting to tell this story for some time but I haven't figured out how to do so. I try to include everything usually which isn't realistic so let's do it like this.
Let me tell it to you in a love story.
It’s not the kind with castles and fairy dust. It's more like heavy backpacks, dirty sidewalks, detox wristbands, and love letters written on napkins. But it’s real, and it’s mine, and in its own way, still kinda magical.
Even if some of the magic smells a little like old socks and broken dreams.
I'm sure since you're reading this you already know my name and such, b-but I will remind you as it's relevant to the story.
I’m Morgan, a.k.a. Mom, and known as Marlie on the streets. I'm one of two captains of Team Diamond; our delightful yet dysfunctional, chaotic stained yet hope-soaked little family.
On the roster we've got:
Me – the {pink-slipped} boss with a heart held together by washi tape and prayer, specialize in both hand lettering and doing life the hard way.
Zacary – my husband, my soulmate, my partner in disaster. Also known as Zac, or Charlie on the streets. Often the quiet one depending on the day and level of mischief.
Drayze (a.k.a. Drizzy) – our 12 year old son and emotional support gremlin. He has a heart that will heal the world and brains that make me question if I contributed any DNA.
Jax (a.k.a. Tooner, and more recently Moon Pie) – our 9 year old son and king of the side-eye and sass. Gives the best snugs, hugs and loves. He gets down with the snacks and is as stubborn as a damn ox- not lacking material DNA here.
And the real MVPs: Jeff and Michelle, (aka my Mom and Dad, aka Grandma and Grandpa) our life rafts, and the anchors holding it all down while Zac and I treated life like a terrible game of Jenga- pulling all the wrong blocks.
Ok, now let's break this down.
Rock Bottom with a Capital B (for “Bruised But Breathing”)
Though this story is starting at Rock bottom, our journey itself obviously didn't start at rock bottom. Maybe I will write snippits about specific events leading to today. Until then, this will be the story of our swan-dive to rock bottom .
The moment our boys were {completely unnecessarily} taken from us, the gates of hell cracked wide open.
I Thank God my parents were willing and able to take them in. They have loved them fiercely, endlessly, and without condition. We are certainly forever indebted to them for protecting our boys from the storm we’d become and providing them with a loving home and the sweet childhood memories every child deserves.
But once the boys were gone, Zac and I ran our lives off the rails like we were competing for an Olympic medal in self-destruction.
Two years of homelessness.
Robbed of everything we owned more times than we could count.
Tickets turned to warrants stacked up like dirty laundry in a house we didn’t have.
In and out of detox centers, programs, rehabs—just enough time to get a little better, then crash even harder.
We isolated ourselves from everyone and everything that ever loved us. Yet through it all, we clung to each other. Loving each other and riding the roughest terrain out together.
And now? I'm writing this not knowing exactly where Zac is. Not knowing if he’s alright or if he knows I’m here fighting. Fighting in the sense he has so desperately been wanting us to fight. There’s a hole in my chest the size of him, and it hums louder than every siren we’ve run from.
(Relax, that's a joke!)
My heart is broken, and not in the sappy poetic way—in the “I physically feel this ache all the way to my bones” kind of way.
The Beginning of the Beginning
As I write this, I am preparing to check into detox. Again.
But this time I know is different—because this time, I know I am so so done. I am so over it and so ready to get my life back! It's my only true desire.
This is my final program, and I’m not saying that with blind hope or some shiny Pinterest quote in hand. (Even though you know your girl is packed and ready to doodle all the quotes!) I’m saying it because my soul is too tired to keep choosing pain that doesn’t pay off. This is it is no longer the punch line. It's do or die.
I’ve been living like a ghost in my own skin.
Somewhere between the sleepless nights, the dirty sidewalks, the dark allys of shame—I stopped being a conscious person. I became a shell. A husk. A pair of eyes staring back in dirty mirrors, wondering, "Is this really me?"
And the scariest part?
It was.
It was me.
But not really me.
Not that I even know who I actually am, but I do know its not anyone I even remember.
Not the mom who used to tuck my Drizzy and little Moon Pie in while we giggle and giggle as I tickle their backs.
Not the girl who used to hand-letter hope on to signs and string love into jewelry.
Not the Morgan who could make a whole room laugh with shamelessly making fun of herself or with a sarcastic statement that was not really intended for humor.
She’s still in here.
And with this commitment, the shell starts to crack.
Off with the numbness. The delusion. The illusion of surviving.
Because feeling again—even though it hurts like hell—is better than staying frozen in a life that keeps subtracting.
---INTERMISSION---
FEEL FREE TO GET UP AND STRETCH BUT I DONT THINK YOURE GOING TO WANT TO MISS THIS.
Messages from the Other Side
So if you know me, you most definitely know Ryan.
My uncle, but really more like my brother, a father figure. A best friend. A life coach I think they call it. A little bit of all things good.
He left this world way too fast, and when he did, he took a piece of me with him.
But even though I feel empty, he didn’t leave me all alone—he started showing up in the wildest ways.
It was always subtle.
A voice on the train that spoke words far too familiar.
A stranger saying exactly what I needed to hear.
Then came the brothers. The ones my boys' ages. Always showing up like shadows of my own babies, sitting across from me like the guilt trip I needed… or maybe just a gentle reminder from Ryan:
“You know what you need to do.”
And the dimes.
So. Many. Dimes.
Like the universe had me on a weird savings plan, but instead of cents I saved, it was sense he needed me to get.
I looked it up. Per Google, dimes are signs from loved ones who’ve passed. Messages from the other side and reminders to trust your gut, to pay attention, to keep going.
I hate so much that he is gone, but Ryan is my guardian angel now. He’s not hovering with wings and harps, that's not his style. He is riding the trax train, choosing the music popping up in my ear buds and whispering encouragement through strangers, and sending me pocket change one dime at a time.
BACK TO OUR ORIGINAL PROGRAMING
The Ending That’s Really a Beginning
This is the part of the story where the audience usually gives their own rotten tomato review and the credits roll.
But real life isn’t a movie, and healing doesn’t come with a soundtrack (unless you make it yourself of course!)
This is the beginning.
Of doing the hard, honest, rigerous work.
Of crawling out of the crater I dug with my bare hands and learning how to walk again on feet that will soon remember what it feels like to dance.
It’s going to hurt.
It already hurts.
But this time, I’m choosing a pain that leads hom. A pain that builds. A pain that teaches.
Because I’ve already lived the kind of pain that just rots you slowly from the inside out. And baby, I’m done composting my own soul.
One day, I’ll look back on all this and say,
“Whewy, we made it.”
Hopefully I’ll say it while holding the hand of my soulmate I call Zacary, my beautiful chaos, my person.
But if the road to his healing means I can only cheer him on from the sidelines, then I’ll do that too.
I love him enough to carry a Zac-sized hole in my heart if it means patching up the hole in his.
Because love like this doesn’t vanish even if it may look different over time.
So here’s to Day One.
To dimes on the sidewalk.
To ghosts that guide.
To sons who deserve the moon.
To
a girl named Marlie who’s ready to remember she’s really Morgan.
To the fire, and the fall, and the fierce final freaking rise.
