Check Mate

/ Cassie / Leave a comment

It’s been months since I’ve picked up a chess piece. Which is funny considering there used to be a time in which a day couldn’t go by without me playing a game. For years, in person, online with friends, against computers, I was always playing. Was I any good? No. Not at all. These days my travel chess set (because of course I have multiple sets) sits on my bay window in my dining room, completely set up and ready for me to make a move. To the outside observer it would just look like the game is waiting patiently for me to begin again. But I know differently. I know it is taunting me. It knows I’m too chicken to play. It knows I’m too scared to lose…because that seems to be what my life is about lately; always on the losing side and never, ever, winning.

It’s amazing the difference a year makes. It’s amazing the difference a small change in situation can make. There’s that old saying that goes “Some people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” And for the most part, I really do believe that. But I also feel that I have not really found any of my lifetime people yet. Besides family, books have been my only constant for so many years. I used to think it was me who wasn’t making the effort to keep people in my life. Like chess, maybe I was giving up too easily when things were getting too hard. The whole mentality of push people away before they push you. Or in the realm of chess, give up while you aren’t really good, but haven’t completely failed.

But, as always, I digress.

I miss chess. I miss my chess buddy. I miss using my brain in a way that feels normal, like I am at home. I need to remind myself that it’s ok that I took a break. I was sad. I felt defeated. I just didn’t see the point. Sometimes it was so hard for me to separate chess from spending time with the people I played with that I didn’t really know what I was enjoying. Did I really like playing the game or did I simply like the company I was playing with.

While I honestly feel like it was a little bit of both, there’s only one way to find out.

Pawn to e4.

13 Years.

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I struggle a little bit, every year, on what to write on this day. I try my hardest to focus on the positive, sugar coating certain feelings with flowery sentiments and words. I tend to over-deliver, painting pictures that are grandiose, though blurry. Just enough static around the edges to make the harsh things easily digestible.

There are four of us, and in true family form, we each had a different child hood, because while we all had the same father, we all actually had a different dad.

While I can remember things so clearly, things are also changing in my brain. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m getting older. Maybe it’s the almost dying. But no matter what I had growing up, it’s what I had. We cannot take it back. We cannot do it over. We can only grow, and learn, and love everyone closer to us a little bit more, righting the mistakes we feel others have made. Being a little better than those who came before us.

And that is truly the biggest thing I learned from my dad. I hope that for the past 13 years you’ve been able to rest in peace, because in the end, that’s all we can hope for.

Years, upon years, upon years.

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To my dearest, lovely 5th graders on your graduation day,

I never thought there would be a chance that I wouldn’t be there to see you graduate, yet here we are.

Sometime a class burrows their way into your heart so much that you can’t remember what it felt like without them. For me that class was you.

From teaching you science in kindergarten and first grades to math in 3rd and 5th grades (and all the visits in between) I am so proud of all you have accomplished in the time I have known you.

Chess in the mornings. Chisme at the small group table. Banning TikTok words. Rapid games of “Around the World”. Drop Everything (out lol) And Read. And so many other experiences that have absolutely become core memories for me.

I wish you all the best of luck. There is no doubt in my mind that you will all succeed in whatever you put your mind to.

And even if there’s nothing else you may know, please know I was always so proud to be your teacher.

What’s in a Name?

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I was named after a character in a book by my father. I couldn’t tell you the name of the book, but the character was Cassie, not Cassandra, which is why I am Cassie, not Cassandra.

I used to conspire when I was little that I was going to change my name to Cassandra the minute I turned 18. Because no one. No one. Has a nickname as a name. I would still be Cassie, but when people asked me what my “real name” was, I could say Cassandra with a flourish.

Flash forward to today where 2 of my children were named after book characters and all three were given names that could be shortened to a nick name. Because in my mind everyone should be able to live two lives: the resume name and the nick name. And I wish I would have been given the chance.

I never wanted to change my last name. I knew going into my marriage (both my first and second) that I was going to remain a Stegman. It’s how I was born and it’s how I would die. And I also never changed my first name. It wouldn’t be so hard, you know. I used to think it’s just because I was too lazy to take all the steps. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe I just wanted to stay who I was born: Cassie Stegman. The girl with the nickname. The girl named after a book character. The girl who was both the oldest and the middle child. The girl who was both the only girl and the second daughter. The one who was strong but also weak. My father’s daughter.

It’s been almost 13 years since you left. And I still don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to do with this one life I was given. But maybe this is the year I figure it out. At least I know I’m still Cassie Stegman, the girl you named.

Where Did the Time Go?

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I can’t believe it’s been so many years since I’ve written in this blog. I used to write almost every day and now it’s been years. I can absolutely promise this post will make zero sense to anyone who doesn’t have my brain, but really, it feels good to write again.

My closest friends know what’s going on with me. After being surplused by my principal who doesn’t like me, I broke. Three months of a major depressive episode. While I used to think I had reached the bottom before, I hadn’t. This was the bottom. For three months. People who I thought were my friends have basically stopped texting, I assume it’s because I dug my whole so far down that most people are scared to venture that far. It’s hard down here in the trenches. But the people I have been friends with for over 10 years, They are the ones who are here. They are reconnecting. And I couldn’t be happier.

I will always believe it’s the people who love you at your lowest are the ones you should love unconditionally. Time doesn’t matter. Distance doesn’t matter. What matters is that there are people out there that care. There are people out there who will always answer your call or text.

I just had a job interview. The people who checked in with me after? All old friends. Friends I probably hadn’t talked to in years and yet they are still checking in with me. Insert crying emoji.

I literally don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I have friends that can’t talk to me because their wife doesn’t like that their friend is a girl. I have friends who I used to message multiple times a day and now I never hear from them. I have friends who won’t even answer a text.

But I also have friends who I have been with for over 20 years and it doesn’t matter how long we’ve been apart, we will always find each other again.

“I need you like God needs the Devil, honey
Someday soon, this dust’s gonna settle
Come real quick and get inside my mind
‘Cause when I’m all f- up
I don’t feel no pain
Won’t you run to me, run through my veins?
Baby, won’t you come and get me high?”

I realize this is mostly brain gibberish. But that’s my brain lately. I feel like I’m constantly writing posts or having conversations. My brain never shuts off. I’ve learned recently that this is not normal lol.

All this nonsense to say, I hope I can write more. I hope I can put my thoughts into the world through print. Even if no one evers reads it. Even if I sound insane. Getting these words out of my head helps.

Maybe this is my new era. The one where I’m honest with everyone else and with myself without the fear of exclusion or judgement.

Maybe, just maybe, this is the time where instead of breaking I learn how to put myself back together again.

Almost a year

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According to the stories that my mother tells me about my childhood, my favorite song was “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. At around four years old I knew every single word by heart and would sing and dance around my kitchen with a wooden spoon, serenading everyone and anyone that listen to me. If my dad were still alive he would say that story was blasphemy, as my favorite song was “Light My Fire” by The Doors, the cassette on a constant loop in his car at all times growing up. The truth of the matter is, they were probably both right. Or maybe neither was right. I don’t know. But one thing is for certain, I still know the lyrics to both those songs and could recite them with my eyes closed, with no background music. That’s how ingrained they are in me.

Last night I went to a concert; my first since 2019. And even then, it would have been years and years before that one as well. Sometimes I find it funny that I can’t even remember the number of shows I would have gone to in my early 20’s. It seems like I was always there, perpetually soaking up a new sound or lyric that would wind it’s way onto my playlist (when that actually became a thing). For the most part, back then, I let others dictate the new things I would try out or listen to. Assuming, since my friends were the “music people” they would know better than me. I, of course, had some of my own favorites, which are mostly still my favorites to this day, but I never shared much and no one ever asked.

When The Killers released Hot Fuss in June of 2004, I remember listening to that CD constantly for the entire summer. I had just graduated college and was about to leave to move to South Carolina for graduate school, my husband-to-be coming with me as we jumped into the unknown of being 23 and having the whole world ahead of us. And while my marriage didn’t last, my love for The Killers did (in spite of and including their guest appearance on The OC).

Last night, after so many tour and show cancellations, band hiatuses, pandemics, I finally got to see them in concert. The minute they took the stage and played the first note I began crying. I wasn’t a blubbering mess or anything, it was more like the amount of happiness I had couldn’t be contained in that moment and it had to spill out in some way. I had waited so long. I don’t think I’ve smiled that hard in a long time. As the show continued for two hours, with me bopping along singing every single lyric, I began to feel something more than just happiness. It was connection. To the woman with her two elementary school boys she brought to the show. To the older couple all dressed up sitting behind us. Even to the girl I met in the bathroom who was upset that she was missing “the best song” while she waited for her friend to wash their hands (she was wrong though, it wasn’t the best song, but I digress). Here I was, at a sold out concert, singing with over 20,000 other people to some really great music. We were all there for this singular reason: our absolute love of these songs. That idea kind of takes my breath away.

So today, when I woke up tired but invigorated, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to write something instead of losing myself in a book. For the first time in a long time I didn’t want to lose myself in someone else’s world. I wanted to lose myself in my own.

My mom told me once that she visited a psychic when I was younger and they told her my life and my future would have something to do with music. I took piano lessons, learned how to play the clarinet, flute, and violin (I can play zero of them now), but I gave up rather quickly, none of these avenues ever giving me a feeling that I wanted to continue down that road. And don’t get me started my singing. I will sing all day every day but I am terrible with a capital T.

But maybe that’s not what the psychic meant. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was that music was the thing that would actually give me a future, keep me here on this planet long enough to do everything I was meant to do. Maybe it was the thing that would save me at those times I felt very, very un-savable .

I really do think that’s what the universe was always trying to show me. While the whole rest of the world was trying to break me down and grind me to dust, music was going to be the thing to save me. Even when I’m just driving down the road, windows down, the cool breeze rushing in to make me catch my breath, feeling the air hitting my face as I sing as loud as I want. These moments are my life preservers.

These are the times I feel most alive.

Conglomerate

/ Cassie / Leave a comment

If you know me even a little bit, you know we are almost at my favorite holiday, New Year’s Eve. Really, what’s not to love? It’s literally a night where the very next day you get to start over. First page of a blank book, clean slate, whatever you want to call it, I love it. With the rip of a calendar page the whole world can begin again. The whole moment is like a baptism, cleansing us of our past sins and birthing us a new with mere tick of the clock. The whole concept, if you really think about it, is genius.

I’ve been looking back a lot lately (I know, I know, just hear me out for a minute). I mean don’t we all do it? Our instagram “top nine”. Throw back Thursday. Flash back Friday. We don’t even need to wait until New Year’s to look back, we have a hashtag for it all. So, in true New Year’s Eve loving Cassie fashion I decided to look back on some old writing. I’ve had this blog since 2013 which means I have upwards of 8 other posts about my love for this holiday, how my life is going to be so different. Even if I hadn’t written for months, I always found it obligatory to document what was going to be my great transformation into a “new year” and a “new me”. Looking back sure didn’t disappoint in that assumption. Post after post of “this is all the crap that happened this year” and “next year is going to be the best ever. I’m going to make it my year.” Blah, Blah, Blah. I’m nothing if not consistent it seems.

There was the year I was going to be brave, the year I was going to let things go, the year I was going to be strong, the year I was going to leave all my baggage behind. The year I was going to grow up. Year after year. Post after post. Of me simply stating everything that was wrong with me and how next year I was gong to fix it all. I mean, the word resolution in and of itself means to find a solution to a conflict or problem. Is that really how I want to see myself? As a problem to be fixed?

For a minute there, I lost myself.

No, that’s not entirely true. I keep thinking this so often. That I lost myself. That I need to find myself. That I need to “get back” to that girl I was before. Just follow the bread crumbs and they will lead where you need to go. But back to what? Even I don’t know the answer to that question. I am almost 41 years old and I can honestly say, without a doubt, that I have no idea who I am. And no, this not in a “I need to find my calling” or “chase my passion” type thing. But seriously, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt comfortable in my own skin.

When I was little, we learned about rocks in elementary school and the one that has stuck with me the most is conglomerate. I don’t know if you remember your elementary school science lessons, but conglomerate isn’t all that exciting. It’s basically a bunch of rocks all pushed together and held together with some sort of binder (clay, cement, etc.). And that’s me. Not shiny. Not exciting. No even my own rock. I’m just a mixture of all the stuff people have pushed on me. I’ve molded to fit the categories I need to fit. And I’ve done a really great job of that for a lot of years.

The time has come,’ the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.’

The time has come.

Maybe it’s best to start with what I know. Things that I know are me and no one else. My favorite color is green, mostly because it’s the color of grass and leaves and life. I love the smell of campfire more than anything and sometimes after sitting outside in front of one, I won’t wash my shirt and sleep with us under my pillowcase so I can fall asleep to the scent. Honeysuckles are the most amazing flowers. I can be silly and flirty sometimes, but I don’t see them as bad things. I’m way to sarcastic for my own good. I’m insanely competitive and I like to be challenged. I have a song for every mood and I save song lyrics like some people save fortune cookie fortunes. I am little superstitious. I believe in the universe and karma. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’m not too sure I believe in fate either. I’d rather be reading than doing most things and chances are if you are talking to me while I’m reading I am not listening to a word you say (but I’ll nod and pretend I am anyway). If I put my book down for you, you’re special. My favorite song has been my favorite song since I was 10. I have a favorite poem and I read it once a week. My favorite thing is to drive around, listen to music and sing (yes even with gas prices this high and yes, even as badly as I sing). There’s so much more, but I love that each and every one of these things is unfiltered me. They are me regardless if I’m a wife, or mother, or teacher. They stand independent of my roles in life.

Maybe instead of claiming some arbitrary change that I’m going to start making in the New Year, I actually do the opposite. I work. I grow. I learn. But I stay who I am. I stop apologizing for making myself fit into other peoples lives by molding myself to fit into their spaces.

Maybe, I stop being conglomerate. Shine bright like a diamond and all jazz.

Heavy

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I have at least 20 different half written posts or ideas floating around in the notes section of my phone, but as I sit down to write I don’t even know what to say. Some of the topics are long winded, others emotional, and honestly, I don’t think I have it in me to do long or emotional right now. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

January has always been a big month in our house. When the calendar resets on January 1st, we tend to reset too. Big plans and big adventures begin forming before we’ve even had our morning coffee and sometimes we go a little too hard and fast for a few weeks, leaving us exhausted and spent half way through. Adding to this, of course, is the double birthdays, mine and Oliver’s, just two days a part at the end of the month. And this year, they’re big ones for both of us. For him it’s his jump into the double digits (how in the world I have two kids in the double digits, I will never know) and for me it’s the mind boggling leap into 40. Don’t worry, there will be a whole other post about that.

But as usual, I digress.

January is heavy. And really, it’s heavy in good ways and bad. Resolutions and birthdays and work and cold and gratefulness and stress and loneliness and fun and exhaustion and and and and…

You get the gist.

Maybe I need to learn to ask for help so things won’t be so heavy. Maybe I need to learn not to pick up so much at one time so things won’t be so heavy.

Really, what I need to learn is that even though you picked it up and you marked it as important, if it is heavy, PUT IT DOWN.

Take a break. Pick it up later. If it is important it will still be there. Maybe by then it will be a little easier to hold. Maybe things will be a little more manageable. Maybe you’ll be a little stronger, or maybe it just won’t be as heavy. Either way, you’ll be happier.

Making a House a Home

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Did you know…this is the longest I have ever lived in one house since I was seventeen years old? In fact, since I was seventeen I have lived in three different states, countless cities, and 14 different houses/apartments, and none of them for more than two years.

We moved every few years as I was growing up, so I guess it’s just a concept that has stuck with me in my twenties and thirties. I would pick a place, settle, and then immediately start looking for the next best thing. The better college, the better city, the better apartment, the better opportunity. I always felt that I had to keep moving. To slow down was to get complacent. To slow down would cause me to really look at my self and face my unhappiness. Instead of looking for something new and better I would be forced to discover why “this moment in time” was not working for me. To slow down was to die.

When we picked this house, we did so in a hurry. My current situation was dangerous and the longer I stayed the more dangerous it became, not only for me for my the kids too. I was trying to stay for as long as I could, simply to help ease the transition for leaving, for all of us leaving. But as someone who was the only provider in a house of five for the past 8 years, someone with three small children, and someone who had nothing extra to offer, I had no where to go. That is until Joe stepped in and decided he would buy a house for us. Sure we had just started dating, but we knew my situation was dire.

We looked for a while but there was always something wrong with the house: schools weren’t good, not enough bedrooms, no dining room, too far of a drive. Until one day we were simply driving through one of my old neighborhoods in the rain. As we drove down the street, the sun came out and a rainbow appeared…at the same exact moment that we saw the for sale sign. We had looked online in this neighborhood so many times, but had never seen this house listed. Joe made an offer the next day and two months later, on another rainy day in August we moved in.

We furnished it with random odds and ends found in our basements, on facebook marketplace, and Ikea. for almost a month we didn’t even have a dining room table and the kids would sit and eat on the window seat in our dining room.

Slowly but surely we filled the house with furniture and books, pictures and toys, laughter and our own personalities. But as someone who was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, I never let myself really settle. I couldn’t “invest” in this house as my home yet. To invest would have been to be happy, and there were far too many unknowns.

Two and a half years later, when my divorce was finalized and my custody battle won, the house had fulfilled its purpose. It was my savior in a truly harmful situation. The calm from my storm. My safe haven in a sea of turmoil and doubt. It was the place I was able to rebuild my life and my family and start the long process of coming home to myself. So do we stay or do we go? Do we pick up and start over again, or begin the process of making this house a home?

“Home is wherever you leave everything you love and never question that it will be there when you return.”

Every single thing I love is here. I think we’ve made the right decision.

It’s the Final Countdown

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(If you sung that title in your head while reading it, we can be friends)

If you know me even a little bit, you know we are almost at my favorite holiday, New Year’s Eve. Really, what’s not to love? It’s literally a night where the very next day you get to start over. First page of a blank book, clean slate, whatever you want to call it, I love it. With the rip of a calendar page the whole world can begin again. We essentially get to go to bed one night and be reborn the next morning as we embark on a new year.

I’ve had this blog since 2013 which means this will be my 8th year of posting a New Year’s Eve post. Even if I hadn’t written for months, I always found it obligatory to document what was going to be my great baptism into a “new year” and a “new me”. Looking back sure didn’t disappoint in that assumption. Post after post of “this is all the crap that happened this year” and “next year is going to be the best ever. I’m going to make it my year.” Blah, Blah, Blah. I’m nothing if not consistent it seems.

2013 was the year I was going to “rest and reflect” after a mother’s day miscarriage, my dad dying, and major heartbreak. But…it was also the year I found running, which I wouldn’t have done had 2013 been all hearts and flowers. 2014 was the year of shedding all that 2013 had burdened me with. It was also the year that I became pregnant with Charlotte and ran (and walked) a half-marathon at almost 5 months pregnant. I look back at that girl sometimes, completely in awe of how much she was able to overcome and how she really stuck to all the goals that she set out to achieve.

Fast forward to 2017. The hard year. The worst year. The year with the least amount of blog posts. The year I had no desire to document or ever hear from again. But also…the year I left home for good. The year I got out of a very toxic and harmful marriage. The year I finally had a little courage. The year I was brave. 2018 and 2019 almost look like mirror images. These were the years I was going to stop quitting things. These were the years I was going to let my baggage go. These were the years that I was going to finally be that grown-up version of myself that I was supposed to become.

And for the most part, I did become that person. 2020 was no joke. I know this year was tough for a lot of people, and I definitely had my share of bitter moments. There were the two miscarriages in May and June. There was the small, though significant breakdown in January. There was the sadness of missing my friends due to Covid 19. But there was also so much wonderfulness that came out of 2020. I finally got divorced and won my custody battle. We took so many trips as a family. We adopted two wonderful puppies. Because of virtual schooling I got to spend so much time with my kids, which is exactly what I had spent the past two years fighting for. For the most part, it was a good year.

The time has come,’ the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.’

The time has come.

For the first time I’m not going into a new year hoping to completely the slate clean and start all over. Do I have goals and plans for 2021? Absolutely. But that’s not this post. I am in a constant state of evolution. And this year is even more different as it’s also the year I turn 40 in a little under a month. Instead this is just going to be the year that I work. On my family, on my relationships, and mostly on myself. It feels like I FINALLY have the other parts of my life under control and now there are no more excuses. I’m allowed to try hard.  I’m allowed to be good at things. Hell, I’m allowed to be bad at things.  I’m allowed to love you too much and tell you about it.  I’m also allowed to tell you why you are hurting my feelings if you are.  I’m allowed to take a break from people who aren’t letting me be me and are constantly trying to put me down to make themselves feel better.  I’m allowed to be who I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, it’s their loss.

Most of all, I am allowed to shed all of the stuff from my past that is not working for me any more. Opinions, judgments, people, fears, assumptions. Boy, bye.

“Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.