Follow on Bloglovin
Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
Read Monica Here Too:
Search The Girl Who

Sooo... That Happened

Humor. It's one of the only ways both Serge and I have made it through the last couple months. Hell, it's the only way we made it through the past decade. Spend ten years with someone and you have a shared humor that can't be matched. Inside jokes, funny asides, being able to step outside the vortex of separation and make fun of ourselves and what absolute fucking assholes we became in our marriage, it's been huge for us.

One of the ways Serge dealt with our separation was by working out like a mad man. To be honest, it kind of pissed me off. NOW you're going to develop abs of steel? NOW? But whatever. He recently wrote this thing over on Separating, Together that made me laugh out loud and then nearly cry. I will always love to read the stuff Serge writes. Over the past couple years reading what he writes has been one of the only ways I was able to learn what was going on with him, how he really felt and thought.

That said, brace yo-selves.

"I didn’t hesitate to send it to her, to Monica — that’s the funny thing, really. I was actually excited to jam it in her inbox. That sounds dirty, huh? That says a lot about my confusion, I think. But so be it. I sent it off. No caption, no words. Just me, shirtless. Send. What a button, huh? It’s such a line in the sand. Whole careers and friendships and love affairs and even murders, so many of them come down to someone simply hitting send or not."

To read the whole thing click over to

Coughing Up Blood

Sometimes I'll be going about my day - heading to work, returning to an empty house, driving through Pennsylvania countryside at seven in the morning to jam in a few hours with my kids at Serge's place before putting in eight hours at my job when an invisible fist punches through my sternum, muddles around in my stomach before reaching up and gripping my heart, squeezing until I figure I'll be coughing up blood - and it all just hits me at once: what the fuck happened?

Look, man. I don't know. I don't have all the answers and I was the other person in this thing with this guy for ten years. All I can say is that, like a bad apple, it starting rotting from the inside out. Black mush. Worms everywhere. Oh, there were/are good parts. That's how it is when you pluck up a shiny, red apple, take a big, juicy bite and then - there it is. The bruised, mushy side you hadn't noticed.

But now it's all you can see. And what do you instinctively do with the apple? You put a lot of distance between you and that apple.

He can write his stuff for the websites we write for and I can do the same and you all can speculate but in the end none of that matters much. I mean, it matters but none of that shit is indicative of the years, hours, days, minutes and seconds spent in this marriage. And I'm not interested in chronicling that, anyway.

In the end, as with all imploding marriages, it comes down to two people: me and Serge. And we both know what happened/didn't happen. It isn't scandalous stuff either. Nobody cheated on anybody, nothing like that. Sorry to disappoint. It was just a slow, sorrowful spiral and by the time I realized how I felt, how I really felt about Serge, myself and my marriage, I was nearly dead. Almost drowned from the riptide of our relationship; taking in water at the bottom of the ocean, seeing stars, hands scrabbling sand, hair tangled in seaweed, blackness taking over. Separating from Serge was me using my last burst of energy to make for the surface and breathe. That's all. I can honestly tell you I'll always be in some kind of love with Serge and I can't tell you that there isn't maybe a shot for us somewhere down the road if we both get our shit together and the timing works out.

But for now, what's happening feels right. Necessary. We were not well.

No Sex Before Marriage

I recently re-read this post I wrote several years ago about my abortion at seventeen called No Sex Before Marriage. It took me right back to that place. The isolation, the blackness, the terror I felt going through that whole thing. It feels important to maybe post it again, in case anyone out there has had or is going through a similar experience.



Dad Double-Standard: Father of the Year or Just Doing His Job?

A couple weeks ago I took a photo of Serge as he pulled our kids in a wagon. Everyday event. He looked cool, yes. But folks, the props he was given were a little over the top. He promptly posted it to his various social media thingamajigs and, as expected, the comments started rolling in.





Don’t get me wrong, Serge is an amazing dad and his kids are lucky to have him. But he’s just pulling a freakin’ wagon. What’s with him doing next to nothing and getting praised to the high heavens like he just lifted a truck off a toddler? And it happens all the time. It happened all the time even before now. But this single dad thing? Every Band-Aid administered, every incident of baby-wearing, every act of parenting becomes EPIC.

Click here to read Dad Double-Standard over on Babble.
Page 1 ... 7 8 9 10 11 ... 358 Next 5 Entries »