It’s not just a name.

wife beat·er

noun: wife beater; plural noun: wife beaters; noun: wifebeater; plural noun: wifebeaters
  1. 1.
    a man who regularly or habitually hits his wife or female partner.
    “my second husband turned out to be a wife beater”
  2. 2.
    US informal
    a sleeveless undershirt.
    “I put on some shorts and a wife beater”

Let’s review this a moment. So it’s either a sadistic bully who puts his hands on the person he’s supposed to love, or a fucking t-Shirt.

It’s not just a name, or a nick name, it’s a slap in the face to every woman who has ever been hit. Did you know, that in some states, it is still legal to take your wife to the courthouse and beat her on the steps, as long as you use an appropriate sized belt or stick?

Abusers don’t take advantage of this though, no they beat the shit out of their wives in the privacy of their homes, and destroy her mind, body, and soul.

But, by all means, keep calling the shirt a wife beater. Would you wear the shift if it was called an child molester? I’m merely curious at this point because we are so completely and utterly desensitization to the world around us that we’ve lost our human connection.

I know this blog won’t change anything, but silence is our enemy.

Please respect one another.



Mistakes and Forgiveness

A Pardon.

Exoneration from crimes committed. Is that truly what became the entire crux of my relationship status? In my head, if he would have accidentally backed my brand new car into a phone pole, that would be a mistake. An act that had not been his intention, but the outcome was still a big ass dent in my shiny new car.

The part I struggled with, beyond the shockingly tawdry images in my head that I will be stuck with for eternity, was the repetition of the ‘mistake’. If you continue to do something, you no you shouldn’t be doing, is it still really a mistake? These questions kept me up for days. I could go on and on… and on and on.

For what? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve made some mistakes in my life. I’m damn sure I’ve hurt people. This hurt begs to be different. To stand out more. It’s so much more personal, because it is an affront to your sense of self. What did she have that I didn’t give? Even after forgiveness is rendered, questions remain.

Who kisses better? Is she better in bed? When you close your eyes, are you still thinking about her? How do I turn off these thoughts? I’m now jealous of a ghost. How do you fight a memory that isn’t yours? That probably isn’t even real? At what point do you just throw your hands up in the air and admit you have gone off the fucking deep end?

This is my new normal since I’ve made the choice to love him more than the pain he caused. As tragic as it sounds, I will just hope that its out of his system, and that he knows me enough to know that if it happened again, he’d be right up there next to the kids’ father on my christmas card list. Meaning – I’d rip him from my life as if he never existed.

Maybe now I can stop crying in my sleep. I refused to cry after that first day, it was a conscious decision that I made because I’m not some petulant child in need of their mommy. Yet almost every morning, I woke up with hot heavy eyes and tear stains on my pillow. Perhaps now I can sleep for longer than 2 hours at a time.

Perhaps now I can fucking function as an adult, for all the other crazy dramatic things that keep happening in my life.

Perhaps now I can breathe.

Or not, and I will just live in the imbalance of forgiving but not forgetting.

Choose to not choose.

When you let the world into your relationship, you tend to get a whole lot of advice. I learned so much over the past week, but mostly I learned about people. Every single person who I spoke with, had gone through this in some form or fashion. On one hand, it made me feel sad for the human race that monogamy doesn’t even seem to be a thing. I had to ask myself some hard truths. That in reality, it came down to just one question.

Could I forgive him?

That of course opens up other questions like; Did I even want to forgive him? Do I choose to forgive, but not forget? Do I want to end this relationship that we spent this much time building? I know that I can’t stop texting him even though he continues to disappoint me. Perhaps in my mind I didn’t mean to test his strengths and weaknesses, but I seem to be doing it anyway and he continues to be lower than my expectations. Is this just me being a spiteful asshole who wants to condemn him because he’s a flawed human?

My immediate knee jerk reaction, believe it or not, was I love this man, and I want to make this work, no matter what. Then I thought about what truly mattered to me.

I’m fucking exhausted. I’m exhausted every day of my life. I want someone I can share burdens with, not someone who adds more. I want someone who respects me and I respect them, the choices they make. I want someone who looks at me as if I’m their whole world, but you know, with sincerity. I want someone who understands that I will never ask for help, because I can’t. It’s not because I don’t want someone to walk shoulder to shoulder with me, it’s because I literally fucking can’t. You don’t think I needed someone? You obviously weren’t listening.

It is hardwired, in my soul to do what needs to be done and survive. I will always walk away with my shoulders squared  and my head up. Do I love this man enough to forgive, but not forget? Do I let go of the fact that our relationship was so second in his mind that I actually broke up with him in November because I felt neglected? Or that I felt like his appendage missed me more than the man did?

Or that he’s lied just so damn much, I am completely incapable of knowing fact from fiction? Fuck I need therapy. I need a vacation, from my life. I’m not afraid to be alone. I’ve been single for so long that ending this relationship is easier than continuing it. It’s because of that I fear I’m reaching for the easier straw. Being single is my comfort zone. Doing everything on my own is how I do things. Hell, he let me do things all on my own when we were together. What difference does it make anyway?

Financially, Spiritually, Physically, and emotionally, I can take care of myself. I did that in, and out of a relationship. Today I question, what the fuck was I getting out of this relationship that has me so tore up? Why can’t I just walk away? Why do I sent him messages at 4am? Is it because I truly love this man? Or did I love the man in my head?

The one who contributed with parenting. The one who contributed financially. The one who contributed emotionally. The one who listened to my spiritual shortcomings and led. The one who encouraged me to be the best version of myself I can be.

It is not weak, or anti-feminist to want an equal partner because I can say with absolute certainty that I would do all of those things in a relationship. So I guess in the end, I don’t have to answer the question about can I forgive but not forget, because what I had seemed to be mostly in my head.

So perhaps I’ll just get out of my own way. I’ll get out of my own head. I’ll see what’s really there. Something inside me wants to reach out to him. Perhaps that is worth exploring, perhaps not. For now I choose not to choose, because what I had I don’t want. I don’t want to feel neglected. Like I’m single but you know with a boyfriend who comes around once a week. I want to feel like I matter.

Until  I feel that way, I choose not to choose.

Silent Rage

Betrayal is suffocating. Betrayed by a coward who hides from the deserved repercussions only fuels an inadequacy that anger cannot contain. You plaster a smile on your lips and pray that everyone stops looking at you like you will crumble at their feet. As if a betrayed spirit could ever be fragile enough to shatter. No, gentle reader, know that empires have fallen because a betrayed heart sought vengeance. Enemies have been vanquished in the name of an unquenchable thirst to rebuild the sense of self stolen. 

That is what I never understood before. We do not have strength borne from daily battles of hardship and strive. Strength comes from turning the other cheek. To know that your heart was obliterated by the man you entrusted it with in the most heinous of fashions. To know he hides because he chooses not to bear witness to the deserved retaliations. This suffocating, crippling, debilitating black hole of rage colors every sense you have, because in truth you are mourning. 

And yet, you still must wake up. You must put one foot in front of the other. Every waking breath, shadowed by a fractured heartbeat, nothing more than an echoed reminder that the fucking world still turns. That everyone else has already moved on from your paltry melodrama. They don’t care that breathing is no longer involuntary, that you have to drag that breath up from the bowels of hell just to fucking make it to your lungs.

But by now you’ve gotten quite good at pretending to feel normal. A wise woman told me it was okay to allow yourself to feel however the fuck you want. (She didn’t say fuck, I took creative liberties with that.) That simple piece of advice is now my new mantra. 

So tomorrow, I will get up. I will wash my face and brush my teeth. I will smile and kiss my children good morning. Perhaps I’ll even swim and hold on to the hope that my next smile will be real. That my next laugh isn’t hallow. That my next thought won’t be about how badly I want to hurt him. 

It will have to be tomorrow because today I still want to reign chaos upon his world that would shock the very fabric of our society. 

Today I will fucking enjoy my rage. 

Prison of Fears

Every day millions of people go about their day, each wrapped in their own little bubble of life, without ever straying from the paths we create for ourselves. We call this our comfort zone. In reality it’s our prison. Now, I do not have an anxiety disorder, I can pretty much find alternative routes all the time when something makes me nervous or anxious. I am pretty good at working under pressure, and I like a challenge. 

If I got paid to lose weight, I’d be a size two. If I had a boss, who held me accountable to my diet, and my exercise regimine, they would run like clockwork. I cannot hold myself accountable.

If I had a boss for writing, I’d write 5k words a day and not even think about it. Even if I had a partner, someone to write with that didn’t need praise because I’m really bad at atta-girl conversations. Someone to hold me accountable, and keep me in line because at 37 years, I’ve learned my fears hold me back.

I won’t start a diet because I’m afraid it will fail. I won’t consistently go to any exercise program because it might be too hard. I can’t afford it – etc.I’m very good at making excuses. 

So now I’m on this path to buy a house. It terrifies me to think of my own lack of will power. I need to come up with about $8,000. This is for the down payment, and for closing. Now feasibly, I can get the seller to pay closing, and that takes me to about $4500. Now if I wait and set aside $450 a month, I could have that in ten months. 

But then – Thanksgiving

and Christmas

And I want this

And someone needs that. 

I want to own a home, more than anything else in the world. I grew up without stability, as the sole parent to four children, I want this for them. Being this close to having it, its beautiful. Knowing I am preventing myself from getting it – its depressing in every single way. I look back at what i’ve done. I cleared away over $6000 in debt in the last year. I got credit cards to help build credit. I got a brand new car (Which I love but wish I’d of waited). I’m financially able to pay all of my bills. 

But I can’t save money.

Like I can’t write with consistency.

Like I can’t eat healthy and work out. 

Because I suck at #Adulting.

Now I’ve gone and depressed myself. 

xoxo ~Kristy

Fathers of Feminists

Here’s a shocker for you, I wasn’t born a card carrying member of the Feminist club. I didn’t even know there was a need for a Feminist club until I was an adult and learned what sexual division was all about. In my house, as we grew up, seperation of sexes just wasn’t a thing. My father had four daughters, and he is the original feminist in my life. Our self worth was never something that came into question because we always had it. This concept might be a shock for some people, but we had it simply because we survived our birth.

The theory of true equality wasn’t just an expression in my world as a teenager, it was practiced in every thing. My father believed his daughters could do anything they put their mind to. Trust me, on Saturday morning when he wanted a ditch or a garden dug in the back yard, at no point ever would having a vagine been an excuse to get out of work. 

My sister and I were talking on the phone yesterday about this very thing. How surprised we both were, as adults, the first time we’ve really seen discrimination or differences due to sex. Now, I can’t speak for all of my siblings, as I have three, but even if only 50% of his daughters rock a wicked self worth – he did a tremedous thing. (I don’t want to short-change my mother either, she taught me how to share this entitlement to being human with other impressionable women who may not be too sure of where they stand in the universe.)

So there you have it, I learned that I am human, and I belong in the human race as an equal from my father, and I learned to make sure every person I meet has the same sense of self and belonging from my mother. 

I’ve taught my daughters how to use their voice and demand equality for all. I am taking my daughter to Washington D.C. where I’m hoping she will fall in love with the United States government in action. I want her to be the President of the United States one day. 

All because of fathers who believe in their daughters, and mothers who teach.

xoxo – Kristy

Walls come tumbling down…

On any given day, you will find me trying to empower the young women I meet. Yesterday, while having lunch, a young woman apologized to a man for eating in front of him. Now the backstory is that this  young woman was on her lunch break, and he came up to her. She apologized for eating. Before I could even stop myself, I told her in my stern mom voice ‘don’t do that.’ She looked at me quite confused, and I reiterated my message. At no point in your life should you apologize unless it is valid and warrented.

I could see the confusion, but then the man said, ‘Yeah, eating is nothing to be sorry for.’

We are so ingrained sometimes, to smooth things over, or to make light o a situation. Or in this case, just because there may be some perceived injustice that somehow we must be at fault for. I see it at work all the time. If a man and a woman are walking down the same length of the production floor, she will almost always cast her eyes down, and step to her right or left, allowing him the right of way. 

But that’s being polite, right? Let’s go with that. It happens every single day, all day. I have a co-worker who is immune to this phenomenon. I don’t even know if she’s aware of it, but she walks with a straight spine, eyes ahead, and confidence in her worth. People part like the red seas. I want to walk with that confidence when I grow up. 

Every single day women are faced with our own guilded cages. These are things we do because our mothers did them, or their mothers before them. We have no real reason anymore. Most men don’t even notice these daily neuances. It truly isn’t a matter of sexism in my mind, it’s our own walls build up over generations and we’ve forgotten how to tear them down. 

Women – get your sledgehammers, a woman is about to become President of the United States. 

It’s time for those damn walls to come down.


Kristy Bock

My silence vs your voice

I believe in not speaking, unless I have something to contribute. Mindless chatter for no other reason than filling up some silent void is silly to me. I rarely share my thoughts or feelings, not because I don’t have them, but because I don’t think the people around me care about the daily nuances of my life. Do you really care about how I got up this morning… drank coffee… couldn’t find my orange workout shirt, which I later found on the kitchen floor? No – I barely care about my morning. 

Often my silence has been taken for being aloof, or even insecurity. It’s neither. Mostly it’s because I’m always in my own head thinking for other people. I decide what they want to hear, or what they would find interesting. Before you call me out for being rude, we all do it. We decide how much of any story we should share, because we never want to make ourselves look bad. I’m just copping to it. I especially do this at work. I call it filtering myself. (Though, its only because of work that I have any people skills at all.)

I’ve lost many friendships because I do not hold up what they perceive as my end of the bargain. Even though I would always be there, at the drop of a hat, handing them the shirt off my back; They couldn’t live in a world with me where I didn’t call them daily to inquire about their morning. This is why I have the most amazing best friend, who just calls me and says WTF Kristy – I haven’t talked to you all week. 

I wouldn’t change it though because words have power. They have so much power to hurt, to heal, and even to destroy. My silence is keeping my ugly inside. When I feel a burst of emotion coming on, I go quiet. If I stay quiet its because you’ve hurt my feelings, but I’m not confident enough to tell you how I feel. It’s not because I’m afraid or because I want some predetermined outcome, it’s because I genuinely hate hurting other people’s feelings. 

I believe the world needs more silence…

xoxo Kristy

Way Too TMI…

Yes I’m aware that my subject has too in it twice. I wanted to be particularly sure that you were aware this blog was going to be far more information than you ever wanted to know about me. Let me start off by saying that I tried a Soft Cup, which is an alternative to the age old, tried and true, sanitary napkins or tampons. It looks something like this:

It reminded me of a condom that had a weird pink bracelet around it. 12 hour protection and no leaking? Just the thought of not having to have a panic attack at work or run to the rest room every five minutes to check and make sure my clothes are good was enough to make me want to try something new.

Here is what I learned… It actually does just that. Goes in easy and you don’t feel it. Twelve hours later not a leak in sight. Awesome! I’m so excited, i may be in love with this product.
Then I try to take it out. Are you fucking kidding me? Who the hell can reach behind their own pubic bone? Not I who has hands the size of a young child. Panic starts to set in, my mind is literally starting to plan my demise due to toxic shock or humiliation. My boyfriend offered to go in and fish it out… I have no words for how horrible that idea sounded.

I’m ready to do just about anything. It’s been 24 hours and I want to cry. There is a foreign object inside me and it won’t come out. I scoured the Internet, I cannot be the only woman who ever experienced this issue.

Turns out, I’m not. I read their words like that of a starving soul. Bear down? Pretend to have a bowel movement? Shit, I have had four kids. I can do that. Or not, you know because when your tense, everything is tense… Everything.

I’m starting to picture an ER visit. Thoughts of going insane because I tried something new started to become rampant.

Then an amazing thing happend. I had to go to the bathroom. It’s been 28 hours since soft cup insertion. I didn’t have to pretend anything that time, checked the status, felt the rubber gel bracelet thing and almost wept with joy. I got that fucking thing out of me!

Take that stupid new product. I’m team tampon for life.

Yes, I know I’m an idiot.


Kristy Bock

@*&$ Rip Van Winkle

waitingI’ve spent the majority of my life, waiting for my life. When I became a financially stable adult, I will begin doing the things I want to do. When I become a  money making author, I will begin focusing more on me. When I fall in live and get married, I will start doing the things that are important to me. Until then though, I am just too damn busy to do anything but put one foot in front of the other and survive.

Too busy to go to the gym, even though I want to. I love swimming, and the feeling of weightlessness while in the pool. Anyone who is overweight or has joint problems can understand what I say when I can walk without pain in the pool because the water carries all the weight for me.

Far too busy to write because well.. Netflix. (And Hulu, and Amazon, and free DIRECTV.) Don’t get me started on Amazon’s time sink Kindle Unlimited. Good God I can throw back books like an alcoholic can sling back a brewsky.

I can’t go visit friends because they are just as busy as I am. I don’t make new friends because I am ridiculously socially awkward when it comes to real life. I can’t even get through one conversation without thinking to myself WILL YOU STOP TALKING!?!? YOU ARE RAMBLING! JUST ZIP IT!

As my job requires massive communication, some would find that funny. Today I did one thing for myself. I got up, went to the gym. Sat my ass on the recumbent bike for 30 minutes, swam two laps to cool down, sat in the Jacuzzi for like 5 minutes, got in the shower, and got ready for work. Then thanks to my lovely sister, had a cup of coffee on her at a funky little coffee shop some guy at work told me about,  and wrote one scene. I haven’t written jack in months.

I’ve had the best morning today that I’ve had in a long time. Just me, and my thoughts, and what I want to do. So this is what #Adulting is supposed to be like? Hmm. Nice.

I think I’ll try this again tomorrow