There’s only so much of anything

Do you ever think you might just run out of patience? Not with a person, or a situation, but with life and for good? Sometimes I think I burned through all of my ability to completely repress my feelings.
It’s like the concept that a person can only lie so many times before it becomes obvious.
But that’s assuming the person being lied to isn’t in some sort of denial. And aren’t we all?
I try not to be, but I try to do a whole lot and it rarely pans out. Which is my own fault. And, let me say, this word press might not exactly seem indicative of my general mental state. Most days (lately) I have been very happy.

I’ve always managed. I’ve always borne up under burdens too cumbersome for one person, much less a young person. But it’s because I always had to. And you end up resenting the idea that you had to. Like oh you struggled and fought and clawed your way to the brink of surviving….be grateful you get the same place as people who did NOTHING to get there. But, I guess we all have our disadvantages.

Yesterday, a coworker (a woman 10 years older) was saying something along the lines of having enjoyed getting a full ride scholarship because it meant not living with her parents. A different coworker (a guy 3 years younger) stated, “There’s so much parental love in this department.”

That was, most certainly, a comment directed at myself. I seriously couldn’t stop myself, I just laughed…somewhat in a way that might make some people uncomfortable, and was like “Yeeeah….” afterwards. No one said anything. It’s just not the kind of thing people want to ask about, because they don’t want to hear the answer (they suspect…correctly). No one wants to know why someone who in all other regards seems completely normal and sane would excommunicate her parents.

Speaking of, and when am I not, my mom has been backsliding in an interesting way. For a long time, I want to say close to a year, she’s been careful to never really mention my dad or brother. But the last two emails from her brought up your typical dickish behavior he’s always exuding. What were they? The first was her mentioning that her choice of television program is constantly criticized. Coming from my dad, a person’s who entire waking life is spent staring at a TV. He doesn’t work, he does nothing at home to make up for it, his days are consumed entirely by watching TV, taking naps and getting fucked up. And then, he finds it SO necessary to march into a different room of the house and tell my mom whatever she’s watching (it’s mostly different reality shows, but more Dancing with the Stars and HGTV than Real Housewives) is puerile garbage. EVERY reality show is staged, everything is fake, it’s all stupid and NOT funny…okay you see this bothers me. He’s this same way with eating. His opiate problem funnels right into his eating problem, because they make you crave sugar something fierce. But…oh my god….I CANNOT tell you the number of times my dad came into the living room (he spent/spends his evenings in the family room, so they’re both always in the same house but never ever together, separate bedrooms of course) to see my mom eating ice cream, to start FREAKING out over it. Like….there are actually girls who grew up with dads who DIDN’T belittle and harrangue their moms over eating ice cream? There were parents who didn’t get into a screaming match if ice cream was being eaten? Like…I still feel it sometimes. The weird shame over eating anything that isn’t a raw vegetable. Because…idk what kind of hypocrisy-meets-controlling-behavior-101 this is exactly but he wanted to control how we looked, all three of us. I’m not saying he was like “You can’t wear a skirt that short” I mean he lectured me about how fat I was getting on more than one occasion when I was a teenager. And I wasn’t at all fat. I’ve never been extraordinarily thin, either. I was probably a size 10 or so through most of high school.


And then I didn’t finish this post….it’s actually now the day after, and I don’t feel like getting into negative thinking because I’m going to take the opportunity I have this morning to write.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this or not, but I can’t really write if my husband is home. Unless he’s in the garage where his free weights are. But if he’s in the house, I get this rage-anxiety over the idea that I don’t have writer-privacy. And then I get mad at him. So it’s best to just get it done when I have time alone. Which I did NOT see a lot of when he wasn’t working. It pretty much guaranteed that he would be here.

But I should be going. It’s a gloomy spring day, but a spring day none the less. The forsythia is pretty much gone, but the lilacs are out. The tiny-apple trees are in full bloom, and because it rainy and windy, their tiny white and pink petals are everywhere. I don’t understand why people are so obsessed with the fall. The spring is way better, AND it’s not a prelude to winter, but in fact a warmer season. How is that not better? Don’t bring up Halloween because if you have a sober spouse you REALLY start noticing how everything is always geared towards drinking.

Have a good weekend


Not your classic daddy issues

Being able to express is the point, but as I age I realize that 1) people believe what they WANT to believe, they see what they want to see and 2) if you can’t find a way to relate into someone’s personal experiences, it takes a stunning level of intelligence and perception on the receiving end for any sort of understanding to take place. It’s not impossible, but eh….

I’m jealous of the people I know whose dads bailed, took off when they were too young to remember it and never showed back up, or they’d call once every few years. I know A LOT of people like that, all about the same age as me. I’m jealous of the people I know whose fathers are dead. What a relief it must be.

Yes, please, start in on a tirade concerning your UNENDING love for your PERFECT father, and how DEEPLY insulting I am. Because my concern lies 100% with your damned feelings. I get you might be hate-reading (I’ve always gotten a lot of that, I had a complete stranger go off on my Xanga, back when those existed, because “all I did was complain” like biiiitch you’re the one clicking on my posts and reading them…this was about 13 years ago) but also like, I’m not saying i think everyone should feel how I feel.
It’s like imagining your sibling situation is different than how it is. Only children must do it a lot, when they imagine older or younger siblings who never came to be. Or someone who loses a sibling at a young age, they must wonder about them. I know i think about my Grandma every day. Or sometimes I think about how miraculous it would’ve been if there’d been a third sibling, and they were like me, and I’d have had some sense of stability in my house. My Grandma didn’t live with us (a lot of people thought she did because she was always around) so on the every night basis it was just chaos. The bad kind of chaos that someone causes externally because there’s so much of it going on internally. I know ALL about that shit because I’m very good at doing it. There’s no ‘good’ chaos but there’s this like natural chaos that happens then things figure out how to self-correct. But there’s no self-correction people like my dad. And, I fully accept and realize that my experience is my own, and there’s not anything inherently wrong with people (particularly women) who are overtly too close with their fathers. It all seems a little forced to me, but that is how bitter people think. It’s just like my dad would always do, he would read the most hateful, ill-intended messages behind your every word and action…it was almost terrifying. Like I definitely grew up into the sort of person who thinks everyone is a degenerate criminal out to get me and take some sort of advantage of me. No one is inherently good or nice and if they’re acting that way they’re probably disassociating or just trying to hide what a real asshole they actually are.

I’m aware my cynical yet optimistic bitterness is both my brightest charm and biggest flaw. I’ve always found I’m only appealing to a certain sort of person, that most people won’t get/like me or even make the remote attempt to do either. But the people who DO like me…they’re always way better than other people in some expansive yet not all-inclusive ways. I’m like a shitty person barometer. Have I mentioned that before?

So, no hate to those suffering the pain of the loss of a father/father-figure. My person father figure growing up was a conglomerate of 1) Television show dads I thought didn’t seem too bad – like Homer Simpson, Professor Farnsworth (I know he’s not the dad but bear with me), etc, 2) Literary fathers and biblical fathers, at least the ones that didn’t suck. Everyone is always like Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac, well there’s also a story of a girl who actually does get sacrificed, but you neeeeever hear about that one do you? I don’t know why but that seems sexist…wait…. 3) The make-believe fathers i made up, first when i was young it was through playing with toys then as I got older it was through writing.  I started writing around….hmmm…I’d say the age of 10. I know I was writing short stories on my mom’s electric typewriter before we got our first computer, which was in…1993 or so. Then I definitely started grinding shit out on that thing, and did for years. You know, all the years I spent parenting myself.

The problem is, I do love my mom. She tried her best, she did what she could to be the best mom she could. She’s genuinely a good person, and I don’t really believe in those, and she just wants to love and be loved, like fucking MOST of us. Yet. Yet she stays with that complete psychopath. She told me that she’d almost left him more than once, but he’d started being nicer to her (sensing her genuine plans of flight, he’d fall back in line for the minimum necessary amount of time to hoodwink her into staying, and course he’d use religion big time to control and subordinate her. How original). And like…it ALL boils down to she wasn’t strong enough, she was too worried what people would say and think, and she thought he’d change. HOW many lives have been utterly wasted and ruined because of that wait? We ALL would have been so much better off if she’d left him when we were kids. My husband has pointed out that when you love someone, that’s not easy to do. But how can you love someone you meant to leave 6 times? He tortured all of us, he’s still at it, yet she’s WILLINGLY stayed and taken it for over three decades. Now she blames the fact that her mother and brother are gone, so she has no one to help her. She always blames something out of her control. She’s got the dissociative and complacent thing down PAT. It makes me uncontrollably sad, to think about her. Or my brother but he’s MUCH easier to dislike because he’s a shittier (somehow) watered down version of our father.

Sometimes I wonder if I’d drink and smoke weed so much if things normal with my family. But who’s to know?But there are times that I’m either 1) SO damaged that I had to invent the world’s craziest theory about myself to bolster my sense of self worth (possible) or 2) I’m starting to pick up on something I’ve known about my whole life. But either way, I feel like I’m preternaturally good at sensing the emotions of others. Is it weird to have always felt like I feel vibes more than most people? I’ve never ever talked about this, because it seems dumb and really does it really matter? But I all just stems back to the simple, simple rule “The damaged love the damaged.” I think it’s sensing something of ourselves in someone else. I kind of pride myself on my ability to assess what type of damaged someone is. But if you can’t tell, I pride myself on a lot.

I’ve always oddly had this strong sense of self esteem. Even when I was VERY depressed as a teenager, it was largely in part of knowing I was hot but being too weird and low socially for any worthwhile guy to date. I don’t think I’m delusional, because the things i pride myself on are very real. Like:
1) My appearance – I’ve only mentioned like 20 times how I’m more or less a 7 (or 8) depending on your standards. There are certainly prettier girls, but no one is going to be like Pft this ugly bitch, no one’s going to be like Pft I hate her big tits and ass (not possible, also I’m long-waisted and 5’9″).
2) When I was younger – my academic performance. I did VERY well through high school and most of undergrad (except math – my college math classes were taken with the understanding I would achieve the minimum passing grade and little else) and pretty well through grad school. My cumulative GPA for undergrad was like 3.6 I think, for grad school 3.4 I believe mostly because of ONE bitch professor rabid for tenure. They’re a lot tougher when they have something to prove.
3) My work history. I’m not saying I had some glamorous jobs. I still don’t. I’m in one of the least glamorous, least artsy, yet still legitimate professions there are, but I’ve always worked so hard and it’s nice to know my work/school history so accurately reflects that. I know I probably seem obsessed with mentioning it, but it certainly shaped my life, and that’s what this is all about, no? I guess I’ve said it’s about more than one thing.
4) How well read I am. I’ve read a generous portion of the Canon, and I’m working on a better improved one. One day I’ll open a library named after my Grandma and put the new improved and old canon and whatever else in it. It’ll have library cats and those with allergies can suck it. That’s more a life goal of mine than having kids or owning a house. It’s on par with publishing a few books (I have a few good ideas, and that’s more than what it takes sometimes, the writing can come naturally enough….look at what I do while I’m not even actually paying attention). Truth be told though, with the exceptions of Poe, Neruda and Blake….I DON’T like poetry. Well, that is to say I never bothered to try and appreciate it. I faked it for classes when I had to, but I avoided it at all costs.

And I guess that’s the general whole basis for my self esteem. It’s whatever. Make of it what you will. I’m not out here trying to hurt or intimidate anyone. I say that because I feel like a lot of times how I come off, as hurtful and intimidating. Gee. Guess who that reminds me of.

And we’re back to my original topic.

Daddy issues. Wish I had them, because that would mean he hadn’t been there. But there he certainly was, and still is. We’re at this stupid stalemate that I’m obsessed with talking about. Sometimes I wonder what will change/get worse next, and when, but most of the time I just try not to think about it.

People are all really good at not thinking about things.

Like…does anyone else find it odd that we don’t know what happens when people die?


ANYONE else think we should all know about this thing that happens to everyone?

Okay it could just be me. But there’s no point in obsessing over things that all boil down to a matter of faith anyway. But….at the same time….you can just dance back and forth all day with this idea.


But, in an effort to dissociate with what i was just talking about I made a phone video of my beloved cat Oscar. Maybe one day I’ll upgrade so I can download videos of my cats.


Family Portrait

Could you imagine mine? ahahahah it’d just have me in itmI suppose i can’t help but be reminded of things that irk me. It’s one of the curses of my lot in life. NOTHING in my instincts or training tells me to let go of anger or negativity. In fact the exact opposite. The EXACT opposite. Which I suppose that/they gave me good groundwork for how I shouldn’t be. But as if it were that simple. It’s never that simple. There’s no waking up your first day of college after moving out and being like, “Okay, my traumatizing childhood DIDN’T happen and from here on out I’m happy, normal and capable of processing and expressing my own emotions.” That’s not a thing. Just like, there’s no magic fucking age where suddenly all the terrible shit from long ago didn’t happen. I think some people don’t realize that if you don’t deal with childhood-based issues, that poison doesn’t go anywhere. Not if you don’t make it. You can have problems from your girlhood crop up in your sixties (This is a loose reference to Claire, a character I fucking hated from On Beauty by Zadie Smith but Claire did make me realize this). Or your boyhood. That’s a reference to my stupid father. I do acknowledge that CLEARLY something(s) really bad happened to him, probably a lot. But that truly did not entitle him to marry, have children then throw his last efforts as a productive human being aside when he realized he could make the three of us miserable full time.
What saves you is when you realize slowly but surely that first, your feelings are real and valid, second that you need to figure out how to commuicate those feelings to others, also don’t let everyone in your life treat you like shit because it’s easier that way, and third that what you want out of life is so fucking boring and normal and uninteresting, you might truly be sane. These things, and many others, came to me, in a slow trickle, nothing more. It’s not like self-actualization happens overnight. Whatever that is. Mia is obsessed with it in The Princess Diaries – which, sidenote, ANY middle school girl could benefit from this book series. The movie, eh, 6/10.

I have this fantasy that some day, someone who really knows me will say “[Cassie], you’re boring and normal.”

Never ever once in my life has anyone called me that. Honestly, the only insults I ever got (to my face) were along the lines of loud/obnoxious/annoying (when I was younger) and  then weird/variations thereof. The one pet store I worked at, it had a grooming salon, and there was this braindead groomer, who just fucking….GAH. She had this obsession with exclaiming “You’re SOOOOOO WEIRD!!!!” to me after like every sentence i spoke. On one of the MILLION occasions I went into work baked I remember listening to her drone on about something quintessentially vapid and i found myself wondering if it’d make a hollow noise if I knocked on the side of her head. Stoned Me really wondered that, before i realized what it implied. I didn’t say it, because if I screen myself in general (and I’m pretty good at it) I’m on def-con high alert shielding when I’m at work. You gotta, with cunts like that around the place.

It didn’t dawn on me until I was in high school, filling out a beloved Myspace survey on which a series of questions involving “How many times have you been called [blank]?” made me realize that insults and derogatory remarks weren’t ever said to my face. I couldn’t recall times I was called stupid or ugly. I could remember a time freshman year, because I didn’t want to talk to him about my social problems at school, my dad became enraged/insulted and told me I’d never account for so much as a “pimple on his ass” in life, he was already so much better than me (an episode of The Simpsons had taught me that this is what only the DEEPLY insecure would say to their children). But I couldn’t remember being taunted by other kids, just my “friends” the way young girls do it. It was much more a no-one-wants-shit-to-do-with-me situation when I was in high school.

I remembered  a time when my dad kept threatening to kill himself, he was so upset my mom hadn’t found out that my brother told him via a payphone that we three would be returning home the next day at noon. This was the first, and one of the worst, times for him ruining what should have been a good/special/fun childhood memory. This was an absolute favorite of his. He was probably MIFFED as it was, because my mom had taken my brother and I to stay overnight at a hotel with a kid-oriented fun zone and pool, it would actually be the same hotel I stayed at the night before i got married. This sort of thing is NOT something my dad would do. It’s like he was under this spell that made him incapable of leaving (why would you leave such a prime situation and go back to taking care of yourself?) but also incapable of ever spending quality time with us, especially me. The only exceptions were the hobbies (like hunting and fly fishing and baseball) that he tried to project SO hard onto my brother. His sexism spared me for most of it, luckily. You resent that as a kid but become really grateful as a teenager when you realize how shitty he is.
So I’m sure he was already in a tizzy (as my mom would say) that we’d gone somewhere without him, he didn’t like that. He wanted us at home, in HIS house, right where he could see us (when he wasn’t fucked up or passed out). He probably implied my mother was meeting someone else and that was the real reason for our visit. He CONSTANTLY accused her of that being her motivation behind wanting to go to church after I moved out, before her church companion had been my duty. He was of course 100% welcome to go with her, but that would interfere with his drug/nap schedule so that was a no. So my brother calls my dad, that night we were staying at the hotel with the nice pool, from a payphone in the lobby, because those existed back then. He, apparently, assured my father we would be returning home around noon, we’d be leaving the city we were in as soon as we checked out of the hotel. He didn’t tell my mom that he’d given these assurances. We ended up getting home about 6 hours after my moron older brother had told him we’d be there. And instead of being relieved, or anything even remotely close to how a sane person would act, he just launched into full lunatic mode. He completed the performance by threatening suicide for a really long time. My poor mom. I remember him screaming at her, I could hear it through their bedroom door. He had something in his shaving kit in the closet in their room that he was going to use on himself as a means of punishing my mother for WORRYING him so. Like the HOURS of just terrifying hysterics we got out of him over this, it was allegedly rooted in his depth of caring for us, his absolute devastation at the idea we’d all died in a fiery car crash (this is what he kept saying he thought happened). And it takes 6 hours to tell someone their entire family died? I remember this conversation SO vividly:
M: “I didn’t know he told you we’d be home by noon!”
D: “You should have made it your BUSINESS to know!”
M: “What did you think happened?”
There had been strong winds that day, he made up some statistic about how semis were being blown off the highway
M: “Even if we’d died, they still would’ve been able to identify us and notify you.”
D: “Not if everything in the car burned.”

That was one of a million awful things about having to interact with this piece of shit, he ALWAYS had an answer for EVERYTHING. It reminds you, after awhile, that you aren’t even dealing with a real person anymore.
So instead of a good memory I just remember him threatening suicide as a way of expressing anger/revenge. The introduction of everyone-has-a-cell-phone-now REALLY worked in my dad’s benefit, because if you can imagine he just fucking loved knowing he was ringing away, invading your life in real-time from the glorious splendor of his tobacco-covered armchair. I talk to the shitty therapist at my first college about this, about how he used constant phone calls (you know, surveillance) as a means of control. She told me to set boundaries. Boy what original thought. The thing is, you CAN’T do that with someone like him. He’s not capable of a lot, like feeling joy, and that’s just one of many.
And that was pretty much his thing. He ALWAYS had to ruin special occasions, like birthdays, the holidays.

I just had a permanent eyeliner emergency – I am also SO SICK of this healing process. My eyes are so fucking bloodshot, they look like I’m a cartoon drawn to look evil, or high.

But now i’m out of time and need to make dinner. But hey I got another one out.



This would be more coherent if I could see properly

Well, I was not blinded, as my anxiety had predicted.
I’m not one of those people who talks about anxiety a lot, at least not in the sense that it incapacitates me. I’m not trying to throw hate or imply deep personal weakness on people who do have anxiety/panic attacks. We’re all different, and we’re all capable of handling different things.
I, not to brag or anything, am capable of withstanding like Vietnam War levels of emotional distress before I start to come apart at the edges. Because that’s what it always it. It’s an eroding away of your weak spots, you don’t just snap in the middle more no reason. That’s actually one of the things that amazes me the most about my dad and R, you know the two guys I ghosted so hard. When I look at those two relationships, it was obvious the two of them were completely under the impression they could continue deteriorating (mentally, as human beings, in their sense of their position in the way the world works, physically, via their relative alcoholism and pill problems) AND continue to treat me like shit/use me as a sounding board and a fucking shock absorber for ALL of their negative, vile bullshit. They’re still there, their fucking claws dug into your back and scalp, dragging you downwards, pulling you straight into the ground, and they have the fucking GALL to think you still owe them love. With my dad, he thought having played a role in my conception SOMEHOW meant he got someone he got to mentally and emotionally abuse and control as much as fucking possible (which is fodder for life for someone like him – see his stupid parents). With R I think he thought I was so desperately in love with him I’d put up with anything and just continue my docket of 100% constant support and forgiveness and almost duty-free sex. But I never loved him. He’s too much like the bad parts of me, that’s what drew me to him (that and he is attractive, don’t get me wrong). I’m not going to say I wasn’t dependent on the escape of spending time with him, which is good because it SUUUUCKED having to go to work at 6 am after falling asleep drunk at 2 am. While his ass would sleep until 1 pm. Then I would always have to pay for everything because he just lived with his dad and didn’t work. There were also the MANY nights that were completely ruined because he go too shit-faced before I came over. I was there trying to forget about my husband’s alcoholism, only to realize I’d just found a worse model and thought spending time with that would somehow fix things.
I mean, it KIND of did. Because when it stopped I realized how much I missed my husband. How much I’d missed him during the entire R thing. And I try not to go into detail about them, because my husband really has made an effort to not drink and he hasn’t at all since he officially quit (8/30/15) but there was some seriously fucked up shit that went down due to his drinking that like…MOST women would’ve left over. Or at least some women I know would have bailed. The weak ones wouldn’t have. They’re not hard to pick out though, least not for me. But when things got so shitty even I was done with it, it made me realize I just wanted things to be good with my husband again, which they hadn’t been for years. All the time we spent apart because I was gone with R didn’t help, I know that. But here we are, all those years later. It’s like the drama of an affair but in actuality it was the least affairy affair, for there was no sneaking around or lying. R would only protest to have feelings for me when he was really, really drunk and even though THAT happened all the time, it was still only like twice that he said something along those lines to me. I just deflected it both times. It’s not hard. It’s not hard to shut someone down, people are just afraid to. It’s not hard to lie to someone, to promise something you know won’t happen. I’ve done it. I got put on the spot and asked to take care of a certain sibling when certain parents are no longer around. I said yes, but my personal philosophy towards child-rearing is MUCH different than this promise-procurer’s. So I’ll do what I think is best, but somehow I don’t think it’s what they had in mind. If you can’t tell, I’m a big fan of self-soothing, self-sufficiency and intrinsic motivation. I mean, what else is there?

Two times in my life I’ve had someone say “I love you so much” to me and they said it SO insincerely on these two occasions…it was almost sinister. Like in that moment I became sure this was not a safe person I was dealing with anymore. I described this weird dread to my husband once, it’s like you’re out in the middle of a field with one other person. No one else is around, you don’t even see any cars going by on the miles-away dirt road. Everything is fine because you trust and know this person, but something gets hinted, somehow your isolation is made a point of. And you feel that first deep stab, that’s cold and unexpected because it hits you so deep, that maybe you aren’t safe with this person. I guess it’s the onset of dread brought about by the sudden appearance of someone’s sinister side. And where I grew up, everyone has one. Even me, I just do something quite different with it.

The first time I heard a creepish, unfeeling “I just love you so much” was from my first boyfriend. I don’t know if I’ve ever gone into extreme detail about him. We met on myspace (that’s right) and I was really only in the market for a prom date. I’d been prom-dumped by a cute cousin of a girl who was in my class the day after I’d finally told everyone about it. I could NOT show up alone, and I could NOT NOT go, my Grandma had paid for my dress like always (and the shoes, and dyeing, and alterations) we couldn’t not have any pictures to show her. So I felt like it was divine intervention that I met first boyfriend. I wasn’t even pushing for a relationship, I was just trying to get through prom with a date. And maybe that was my issue, I always came off as totally disinterested in a guy because I didn’t want to seem desperate, but then I’d come flooding at them with this torrent of emotion at the end and it’d seem almost scary I felt so strongly yet acted so differently. (It took me A LONG TIME to figure this one out). Granted he was nothing special, but he was the first guy who’d taken a dating interest in me. It was because he was from another town and high school, though. We lived 45 minutes away from each other, which is really annoying when you’re in high school and work part time. He did some dickish things. He’d openly mock me to more than one person for ordering super tiny amounts of food at restaurants (again, I didn’t want to be embarrassed by eating too  much….have I somehow NOT mentioned my dad and his food-shaming?) he let my brother “front” him the $70 for our prom tickets then never paid him back, he complained to me that because he was escorting me to mine, he could no longer afford to go to his own senior prom despite the fact that he only ended up paying for his tux rental, he didn’t even get me a corsage. Honestly that last one hurt the most. BUT 1) I wasn’t accustomed to being treated well, or at all, by guys 2) I just wanted a boyfriend. I mean it’s shallow I guess but it was very true. I was very pretty when i was younger (obviously, if I’m still attractive now, i’m aging well but I never spend time in the sun so that makes sense) and I didn’t even know what “needs to lose weight” would feel like. I was my absolute skinniest as an adult the winter I was 18. But by that winter, first boyfriend and I had broken up. It happened at the end of summer, when he was moving to a different town 45 minutes a different direction away from the town I’d moved to (I left my parents right away, remember? in fact first boyfriend owning a pickup truck played an important role in my moving out). I guess I wasn’t surprised, but I also had thought we could make it work. He of course I’m sure wanted to be a single freshman at his party school.
But that first year in college didn’t go so well for first boyfriend. I mean I guess everyone has some annoying angsty existential crisis when they’re a freshman totally on their own in the world, like i was. I’m very glad I had college as a part of my life just then, because it gave me meaning and purpose when most else didn’t. Also, this was when i started renewing my friendships with best friend and her twin because they ended up going to the same hometown university as me (they would both transfer to state school years later). Though I pined at first, of course, we slowly grew apart. When the movie The Departed was in theaters, I went on one date with a guy named Patrick whom I will always regard quite fondly because he was the very first person in all my life who liked me (solely) for the person I was. How did we meet? Myspace, again. He was hella emo about a girl who’d just broken up with him, while I was still in that same headspace due to first boyfriend.  He said he’d taken to scouring Myspace profiles to distract himself from missing his ex, and mine was the first one he’d found that actually seemed interesting. Mine was definitely different. I had the same cliche background and color scheme as a lot of girls (pink with black font and vice versa, of course) but the content was its own. So Patrick and I went on one date, but i think the fact that I was 18 (he was 21) and the fact that I was way prettier than any sort of girl he’d dated before, he couldn’t handle it. Plus i remember distinctly not knowing how i really felt about Patrick because I was so definitely still fucking around with first boyfriend. I felt no qualms about going on a date, since first boyfriend had done his damnedest to imply we were friends and benefits only. There would be two more guys I casually dated that winter/spring of my freshman year in college, one I  would have sex with (the hot one) one I would not (the one from school). But, by the time our mutual freshman years were drawing to a close, my first boyfriend’s life drastically changed for about the eighth time.
His parents had divorced when he was still a toddler, his dad had married and divorced more than once since then, he even had two more kids. His mom had remarried once. Well, that spring his parents both hit him with “I’m getting divorced” moves, and then come that spring his mom was moving clear across the country in pursuit of a job a friend could get her (she was a nurse so it’s not so shady seeming). Which kind of just made my first boyfriend freak out mentally, I guess just a little more instability is not what he was looking for. He took it out on me, of course. He followed his mom to the desert, because he didn’t feel obliged to work extra hard to support himself and stay in this state. Staying with his dad was out of the question, given the two young children and BITCH of a stepmom he had that (I met her once, if you can tell). After he moved he called me and told me (had I not done things that I’d done the last night he was in the state the night before he and a friend drove his truck to his new state) that he was going to mail me a ring and propose over the phone.
Yeah my first boyfriend, the first person I’d ever had sex with, tried to convince me to move several thousand miles by offering to marry me. But then, after this phone conversation, he just disappeared. He left me hanging emotionally, in every way possible, then when i finally had the courage to IM him about it, he completely shrugged it off as the inevitable erratic behavior of someone who’s “going through a lot right now.” I FUCKING HATE THAT PHRASE. Because, guess what, EVERYONE is going through a lot, like all the time. That shouldn’t be an excuse. But it always is.

And yes, you can ask the inevitable question of “Why did I give this idiot the time of day after all of his bullshit?” and well, I guess my answers are going to be annoying and trite, because I was a 19 year old girl, I still obviously retained some portion of romantic feelings for this person over the year we’d been “broken up” but still together on some level because we talked all the time and met up for sex when advantageous (and I wasn’t into anyone else, but that only happened like 3 times that year). Plus, I didn’t have that much going on for me just then. I lived by myself in a tiny one bedroom apartment with like….16 different pets (I’m not even joking…it was a hoarder situation almost, except I did take good care of them, but I really just felt like a zookeeper most days). I worked at a pet store, i had very few friends. I remember, one days off in the summer when it was sunny and hot and perfect for the pool or lake…and I’d be by myself in my apartment, wishing I had someone to spend time with and somewhere to go. I know that sounds pathetic…but what can I say I can be pretty pathetic. I know it. Even though I knew he didn’t mean it I still WANTED to believe he meant it. Again, sad. I was still a teenager then so….idk what you want from me. I think the fact that I was doing all that I did at that age was remarkable. Plus I truly don’t regret the memories that make me feel “normal” and being a pathetic lovelorn 19 year old is actually pretty normal…so….
So that was the first time someone SO insincerely told me they loved me it creeped me out. The second time was actually the last time I spoke to my dad on the phone. It was at some points, month after the wedding, after the winter holidays. My dad said something to imply that he knew my husband had a drinking problem (this KNOWING came about because my husband’s sister had started spending more and more time at my parents house, due to my brother, because they kind of “fell in love” as she once put it, at our wedding, and so my darling sister-in-law was telling my parents things about MY fucking personal life that I DID NOT want them to know. Because they’re both fucked up and it’s not their business. I guess with Ma I just don’t want to worry her. My dad can just go fuck himself) and then my dad said something to insinuate that my husband was probably physically abusive towards me because a lot of drunks are (OH, WHAT, LIKE YOU, DUDE?). I was so outraged that he would feel comfortable speaking to me like this I didn’t respond which of course he pounced on (ever the cop) Oh, have I hit a sore spot? That’s what he asked. The thought delighted him, I could tell over the phone.
YES. BUT NOT THE ONE YOU THINK. It was just the perfect epitome AND culmination of how invasive and cruel he was always going to be. And that meant it was up to me to save myself, to stop everything.
It helps that I have 0 financial ties to them. I got my birth certificate and social security card, which had both been in their safe deposit box. We’d changed my car’s title back when I had to unexpectedly take over my car insurance payments. I have like 80 financial ties to my in-laws, but none with my parents. Not anymore. I was on their insurance for as long as I could be, but I’ve had my own through my job for the past 5 years anyway.
But after the “have i hit a sore spot” question, he told me he wouldn’t ask these sorts of things if he didn’t love me so much. It just creeped me out the way he said that, just like when my first boyfriend did it. I think I can hear the manipulation in people’s voices. I fucking hate it. There’s nothing I respond less to. At least like, try to reason shit out to me, don’t just imply that some totally fake emotion on your end is somehow to blame for ALL of YOUR bad shit. Bleh.
So, here we are, this is the weird thought I had this morning. I didn’t want to wake up early, but unfortunately, it would seem that during the night I slept on my stomach, which I KNOW is unhealthy, and especially right now as my eyelids are healing (I just had them tattooed, after all) it’s especially bad to smash my face into a pillow all night, but it’s how I want to sleep dammit.
So I woke up around 8 am, and I couldn’t even open my eyes, they were so bad. When I finally got them clean and separated (the pigment is still running off, it’s getting ANNOYING) I was far too awake to go back to bed. Besides, I already am thinking about how I’ll need to go to bed early tonight. The end of a long weekend is sad, but it was a good one.

As if 3100 words isn’t enough – how was the weekend?
Thursday  – my actual birthday, I know, how funny that I’m such a fucking stoner and my birthday is 4/20 but the bulk of the people in my life don’t have the slightest fucking clue about me and the weed. Like really if they saw how much I really do smoke…..I feel like they’d all be shocked. Anyone I tell can’t believe it. But anyway, I went in for the permanent eyeliner I’ve been going on about. It’s a tattoo. I had my upper lid lash line tattooed with jet black ink. The awesome woman who did it was impressed that I was so upfront about what I wanted. I am so that way. She told me that makes it easy for service people. I didn’t tell her I NEVER get anything done to myself, I cut my own hair and haven’t dyed it since before the wedding, but back when I did, I definitely knew what i wanted. I hate having my hair touched (I don’t know why) so I don’t miss that, but I miss getting my nails done. I’d always have a variegated color scheme with two sometimes almost clashing colors, I’d always get short and pointy gel nails with shellac. It ran me abut $65/month. I HATED the hour of my life i had to sacrifice once a month to get a fill-in. But then i realized I could afford a housecleaning service for a the same cost. So we did that for awhile. Then we had to cancel that as well, so now I’m down to paying once every 3 years to get eyeliner tattooed on my face, but yes I knew what I wanted. I knew exactly what I wanted. I’m a LITTLE bit more like a cartoon character than before. How else am I like one? My voice, the different weird voices I talk in. My eternal same hair cut (layers with bangs and face frame….laugh if you must) and color (a natural, ashy reddish golden-brown I like to call it, it perfectly matches my eyes which I’ve always found fascinating) my quirky addictive behavior, and my many weird piercings i never change. None of them are in my face, of course, and actually I took out my navel ring a year or so ago, and that was the last of my body piercings. But I have a bunch of weird, random ear piercings, and I’ve had most of them 12+ years now. So now, with my first tattoo, I’m just a little bit more like one.
Friday – Saturday : begin boring normal weekend. I went grocery shopping, my eyelids looked so raw and puffy the self checkout cashier asked if I was doing all right. So that’s how sweet I looked Friday morning…. Then from then until now it was just boring house stuff. We’re either moving in two months or signing up for another year of this house, either way it could stand some cleaning. There’s 5 cats in this piece. We had to run to the laundromat because we haven’t even attempted to have the washer fixed. It’s annoying. This week we had SEVEN loads of laundry. There’s just two of us. I find this appalling for one week. But at least we can dry at home, makes it less annoying I guess.
I also made the mistake of watching 13 Reasons Why. Just don’t, if you’re thinking about it. There’s two horrific rape scenes, and I literally wouldn’t look at the screen throughout the entire suicide scene. Just hearing it was disgusting and horrifying. I’ve had this especial terror of slit wrists in particular since i was a young kid (overly graphic scene in a daytime soap opera of, again, a young woman in a tub). As I get older, and realize I don’t always have to act fearless about everything, I realize I’m fucking squeamish about certain things. I tried watching a documentary on the illegal organ market, which is a topic I gave a presentation on in grad school because literature is really obsessed with it…I think for obvious reasons (see – Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and Harvest by Manjula Padmanabhan)  but I couldn’t deal with watching a kidney being extracted.

So now I say farwell to my rare friend, the 4 day weekend. Of course Memorial Day isn’t too far off, a 3 days are nice as well. Getting holidays and weekends and night off was the stuff of dreams when I was in college, for the million years i was in college.
So in hindsight, shitty men always end up reminding you of one another, and my permanent eyeliner is amazing, but it hurt like a motherfucker and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to go in for a touch up soon anyway.

But either way, good birthday weekend. Good start to the last year of my twenties.


So nearly almost 4:20 on 4/20

Well, roughly 2 hours ago my husband went to bed, and perhaps knowing I didn’t work the next morning caused a lapse in any effort made on his part NOT to wake me up.
I went to bed at 9:45, which is my usual. Unfortunately, even on the nights when I know I can stay up late I’m still tired af from my 4:30 wake-up that morning. Happens every Friday.
But, most unusually, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tried for a valiant two hours. Maybe knowing I wouldn’t be startled awake by an alarm inspired me to get up. So here I am. And I was thinking, as I lie in bed hoping I’d be asleep soon, that the gifts I’ve received for my birthday so far are pretty indicative of the relationships I have with those people.
My work friend gave me a cast iron skillet. She bought it over 2 months ago, gave it to me unwrapped in the bag from the store with a card that was definitely from the vendor kiosk at work. I’m not an ungrateful bitch, I like what she got me because she asked what I wanted and that was something i’d been wanting but didn’t feel like buying myself. Specialty kitchen products, am I right? But the whole not wrapping it and work card, that is SO her. Despite the fact that she told me back in February when she bought it.
My together sister in law gave me two fancy organic chocolate bars (1 of which I will eat) and three cases of La Croix (1 of which I will drink). She’s a practical human being, for sure, but she doesn’t know me too well. Of course I know it’s unusual to hate EVERYTHING that is fruit-flavored and to ONLY drink one kind of La Croix…but here we are. My hot mess sister in law gave me a necklace with a large heavy charm that comes apart, somewhat like a locket to reveal the bottom half is a large magnifying glass. It’s almost like a Mr. Peanut monocle on a necklace. I really like it.
But those two bday gifts from his sisters are so indicative of their personalities it’s crazy.
My best friend, arguably my only real friend since work friend and I really only interact the one workday a week we get lunch, hasn’t sent anything. Usually she’ll mail a card (gets here late, she’s in medical school so it’s kind of understandable) and give me my gift in person…which the next time i see her might be Christmas, unless I have the $ to go visit her.
Then there were the things my mother in law got me, which were picture frames, a Yankee candle wax melter or something (which is great because I can’t have open flames around my Himalayan cat – if you’ve ever seen one of those you get why) and a purse-backpack. The third thing seems so 90s to me and I’m like agh are those styles so old they’re actually going to come back now? It’s time already? I always thought it was neat because my Grandma was born in 1918, and I was born in 1988. So the 1920s were to her what the 1990s were to me. Which is crazy to think about. I guess I wouldn’t be so fixated on things like this, except it’s my birthday (I’ve only mentioned 80 times by this point). Forgive me, I think I kind of partially explained that most of my birthdays were ruined by one thing or another. I remember at least two as a child claimed by illness, like throwing up illness. I know for certain my 17th was ruined because my dad decided he needed to start acting like a lunatic in Lonestar Steakhouse and that got my Grandma REALLY upset (which was of course a goal of his) and that in turn just SO set off my mother. In the usual cycle of things, my mom would then take it out on/complain solely to little ol’ me. In my angrier moments I think about how my mom was like oh, I don’t need to have my own therapist or best friend or sister or free maid, I’ll just give birth to one. Come to think of it my Grandma was a free maid as well. When I moved out was the first time in almost two decades that my mom was on her own with her housekeeping. Never thought about that until just now. (Sidenote – that’s what writing does, doesn’t it? At least for me, it’ll make me think and communicate about a topic MUCH differently than if i were speaking. It also makes me realize things…to a certain extent) There were only birthdays also ruined by the ill behavior of my dad and his equally horrendous son. So, I kind of had this hate-hate relationship with celebrating my birthday for a few years. Plus I mean, if you weren’t a loser, let me fill you in, when you’re an adolescent, and in high school, it REALLY sucks when you see other people get treated like fucking celebrity/royalty status for their birthday….while other people literally get nothing. It sucks not having friends for stuff like that, or a boyfriend. I definitely had neither for a lot of my young life. But I’d rather have been single then than be single now, so….

But anyway, I’m hoping I can fall back asleep sometime soon. Not that I have too many plans going on. But,  today’s permanent make up day. Then i guess coming home and waiting for my husband to get out of work. We’re still kind of economically recovering from his loooooong period of unemployment so it’s not like much else can be done. Oh well, it could be worse. Though I’ve heard some strong hinting that he doesn’t like this job and wants to quit and I’m just like “suck it up, motherfucker!” at this point. I mean I worked a job(s) I hated (three to be exact) for ELEVEN years, WHILE attending high school then college full time (with 1 year off between my BA and MA), and somehow I made it. Like the idea that you just have to fucking love your job, and it’s okay to work a pointless, dead-end job if it makes you temporarily happy instead of this mystery dream job you don’t have…those are VERY strong themes with my husband and his half-sister through his mom. Plus my husband does this thing that I wouldn’t mind if it didn’t hint at a MUCH deeper aimlessness, it’s like he has career ADHD (he does have regular ADHD, so I’m not hating just listen to my analogy) whatever he’s presently looking at, that suddenly becomes what he thinks he should do with his life.
If we’re drinking coffee, we should open a coffee shop.
If we’re cooking dinner, we should open a restaurant.
I think you get the idea. And I wouldn’t mind just random conversation making, and I guess it’s good he always seems to be looking for different ideas for his career. But they suspiciously all involve his opening and running a business, being his own boss, etc. It’s like…you do realize the capital necessary for start up and the likelihood of failure in the first five years? Oh yeah that’s just what our marriage needs. I hear it’s great for a relationship to go bankrupt over a failed business venture. Plus it’s kind of disheartening to hear how unsure and changeable his ideas for the future are…as it would be for most people I think.
But I guess my ideas for the future aren’t so concrete. I could stay in my current job. I’m like a 7/10 content with this job (compared with a 3/10 and that’s generous for my last job). The medical insurance sucks though, and they don’t match 401(K) at all, so that’s annoying. But there’s also some good stuff, not to mention my boss likes me and is super cool as far as bosses go, and my job utilizes a lot of parts of my personality and background that don’t pertain to literature, which leaves me all my creative energy for non-work. Like this. But I could just as easily leave if something with better pay came along. That’s all it would take. Plus there are certain random things about my job I would not miss. But that’s true of all jobs, I know it. But anyway enough about a place i don’t have to think about for 4 days.

I think part of my inability to get back to sleep is the three beers I had last night. My stomach is finally at full normal, and it being a special occasion (ha) I went for it. But something about being at all hungover makes it nearly impossible to fall asleep once woken. You learn that sort of thing the hard way. Like when your shitty smothering father calls and calls the morning after your 21st birthday, and you HAVE to go in to class that afternoon to take a Spanish final (my birthday is at a bad time of the year once you get into college…learn that the hard way too) and you miss out on a possible four hours of sleep because of his obnoxious annoying ass.
And yes before you even take in the breath you need to launch your tirade about what an ungrateful little cunt I am, you just have to ask yourself – is an abuser capable of caring about his victims? Like am I REALLY supposed to think that there’s some sinister half and half shit where he’s actually a good person but he always let the abuse from his own past control him? Well guess what he doesn’t get out of it that easy. And since it’s not some Jekyll and Hyde shit, it’s that ALL of his actions stem from a bad, shitty person, even the ones veiled as caring-father-BULLSHIT-101, which he was gooood at.
That’s one of the creepier things I would come to notice as I grew up, how talented my dad is/was at faking it around people. He was so different around anyone he might want to impress, it was just dumbfounding because you couldn’t believe he even KNEW how to be nice/pleasant, he was always so awful to his family behind closed doors. And he was always going out of his way to make sure we stayed that way. He tried to keep all of us as isolated to the family (and that was JUST the nuclear family, as he despised my mother’s relatives who lived minutes away) as he could. I always wondered what it was like to have a dad that didn’t actively try to stop/end your friendships.

So I’ve had irritating experience with post drinking insomnia before. Which is crazy because I usually never have trouble sleeping. I have a very boring, regular sleep schedule that involves never being up past 11pm. It’s all right.
I guess if i had to look back on my 28th year, it was pretty good, things have only improved for me in the past few years. There’s still…you know…the gaping crater of the issue that I’m basically waiting for my dad to die so I can see my mom again. I mean, unless the dude gets a lobotomy, I don’t see what else could change him to the point of toleration. I don’t get what else could go down. And I mean, they’re both early 60s, my mom’s only 59, so….it could be awhile.
There’s a teeny, tiny sliver of me that doesn’t want to have kids because I wouldn’t even get to have my own mother be a part of the situation, like at all, without having to somehow reconcile with my dad. And I’m not doing that. There’s no middle ground with people like him, so it’s either 100% compliance, or you’re on the shit list. And boy you don’t want to be on the shit list. And you never know if you’re on, or off, but you BETTER answer that phone the invasive 4 times a week he calls you! OR FUCKING ELSE. Then, when we did call, it was the horrendous cliched terrible parent conversation, on steroids, times about 60. He’d do 98% of the talking. A roommate once noticed that and remarked on it. She said something along the lines of “Whenever your dad calls, you never say anything but “Mmhmm” ” I was like YEAH FUCKING TELL ME ABOUT IT. My mom, in that weird way she’s smart-stupid, has remarked many times that she doesn’t understand why my dad doesn’t pick up on the concept when the other person is only making the slightest affirmative noises it means they’re not interested or engaged in what you’re saying. Most people care about that, but not my pointless father. He just needs to pontificate and be heard and know he’s talking at someone. It’s because he’s high. I kind of understand, but the fact that he uses it as a means of torture it the deal-breaker. I like rambling too (OBV). Like he’d make you stand to the left of his easy chair and the TV, and he’d lecture you, making you stand the whole time, or he’d make you sit. That was actually worse because you knew he’d just popped a FEW a was ready to go off (because he’d get pissed about something and not be able to let it go). Actually, he can’t let anything go. I mean that’s what healthy people do so obviously he wouldn’t do that.
But of course I didn’t piece together the whole prescription drug abuse thing until WAY after I moved out. I’m slow to realize shit because I’m repressing A LOT. If you haven’t realized that by now I’m beginning to suspect you lot are only tuning in for the sex stories. Of which I really don’t have any new ones…so….sorry?

So, to an unruined birthday! Because…I mean I’ve had a lot of not great ones. I explained the birthdays of my youth, then again, when you’re in college, this part of April? HA! Finals city! Final-huge-paper-of-the-semester CONTINENT!
Easter falls on my birthday every once in a blue moon. The last time it happened i spent the ENTIRE day writing a paper for a grad class. My husband, in a not-smart move, worked because I “was going to be busy anyway” when really he just has a hard time not letting people use him and his shitty work at the time wanted him to come in to give their regulars Easter off. So I spent my Easter-birthday alone writing a paper, and my laptop cord chose THEN to stop working. I suddenly wouldn’t have a laptop to write this paper due the next day on. I wasn’t starting a 20pg from scratch, but I NEEDED that day, for sure. Luckily Best Buy was open and I had bday $ to buy a cord adapter kit and it WORKED! I literally cried with relief. I think that’s the only time I’ve done that. So that was 25 I think. Then just so many other years (since i was in college 8 years…like a doctor….) I had other huge papers due on or around my birthday, it just kind of ruins it.

Also – side note, I’m never really trying to complain. That’s not the point of this. The point of this, if it exists, is to exist. I’m aware there are MUCH sadder things in life than having a paper due on your birthday. Like really, really aware.

But I guess that’s all for now? Wish me luck that I don’t get stabbed in the eye today! The pain doesn’t worry me, because really how long can it last? I’ve had braces and extensive gynecological procedures, but something someone’s drilling into my eyelids should be scary? Pft. But the concern that the person doing it is going to get bumped into and half-way blind me is a genuine.

Either way, I feel I’ve gotten sufficiently high to attempt sleeping again. So. Farewell.



Cynical Optimism

Perseverance is my big issue. I literally just gave up trying to spell that word correctly on my own and spellchecked it. What a perfect fucking example. I always say that Spellcheck and its cousin Auto-correct (which has yet to be given the distinction of being its own word, I see) are making idiots out of us all.

I’m just not 100% thrilled with my progress since grad school. But I guess I was like using all of my psychic energy fixing the last of the MAJOR issues in my relationship  with my husband. Which obviously can’t be done on one’s own. So I guess the flow of progress isn’t so bad, because okay –
2009 – Meet/Start Dating/Start living together (we moved in together freakishly fast and it managed to work out because my husband is a sweet person and I have/had a MASSIVE tolerance for being treated poorly – we are the exception that proves the rule though, you get?)
2014 – Married (engaged in Oct. 2013)
Then…like….seriously fucked up shit happened after that. Not that it didn’t happen before but it finally came to a head in 2015. I finally severed things with my parents, besides the email correspondence with my mother. Then there was the weirdness with…you know…R and all that….then about four months after when that ended (it lasted about 10 months in total) was when my husband and I tried ‘swinging’ or whatever you want to call it with two different couples three different times in one month -it was November…such a busy November because that was also the last time I’ve gone out drinking/bar-hopping hard all night till closing time (which here is 2am) with a group of people. I’m like still burnt out from that. Plus it’s not that fun and what I really remember the most distinctly from all of that is the hangovers. So…eh. I’m kind of over it.
But now it’s 2017 already, it’s been close to a year since I had sex with R last. I’m kind of glad we did the swinging, because honestly I felt bad for my husband, he wasn’t getting any from the chick he was trying to extra-marital with so things got really unbalanced. I mean it’s GOING to be easier for a woman (and I’m hot) to get dudes to be into that situation than vice versa. Honestly what sparked the true interest in swinging was the approach from a DIFFERENT dude from grad school (did we seriously all just go there to find people to fuck in our late twenties?) last September (I just checked my Twitter messages and it was 9/14/16). He basically asked if we’d be into it, I of course showed my husband and he seemed excited so I said yes, then he’s like okay I’ll talk to my wife (they’d done the process before but things had ended for different life-related reasons). Then it turns out his wife isn’t into the idea of it anymore, and we’re left holding our dicks. Pretty good use of the phrase, if I do say so.
So that kind of propelled my husband into making an online profile (that I have of course completely deleted since then) and I’ve told you about what happened those times already. I guess if you look at the timeline between my thing with R ending, other grad school guy approaching me, the swinging….it happened KIND of fast….ha! I don’t know why but that amuses me. Like I feel like that’s not something  would do, yet I did it and wrote about it and that’s pretty much my goal for life. So. Before you go judging that, keep in mind that I am capable of providing for myself while also trying to achieve that writing life goal. I don’t care if it doesn’t seem like it has a point. Because MOST things don’t have a point, if you haven’t been paying attention.
Plus with the swinging, I didn’t really like it, I could tolerate it. And you should really do something better than tolerate your spare time. Plus since’s just not that appealing. R has actually tried to contact me a few times recently. It’s annoying. I really should block him on everything because i think that’s what it’s going to take. At least no one knows about my Word Press.
Well, onward and upward at this point, I guess. It’s been almost a year. Good for us. Things are way better between us too.
I guess it’s easy to be in a good mood when you’re finally over a stomach virus and Wednesday is your Friday this week! I don’t get that much vacation time where I work, so this is a maaaaagical time of year for me. 4 day self-imposed weekend.
God help us I’ll probably be on word press.

~Thanks for reading~

Fucking ick.

Well, my last post (no, I didn’t reread it, not my style, editing is for the other parts of my life) was written in the throws of 3 beers. 3 – 16 oz beers. That is not such a large amount. I mean I’m not a tiny person, and I’ve put back 4 times that and not been hungover off of it.
But little did buzzed me know that that night would also, so coincidentally, be the night the full force of a stomach virus would make its incubated self known. I went to bed around 9, as is my usual, and granted I’d eaten cereal for dinner because if my husband isn’t around I rarely bother cooking, but all seemed all right enough. Then around midnight I wake up and feel like I have to vomit. I do so, and I think I managed to fall asleep for at least a few more hours before getting up for work. The next day at work I felt so hung over, my whole body just ached, especially my joints, and I was halfway to convinced that I really had contracted the flu. I mean the liquor store right by my house is NOT all that hygienic. People definitely live there. I was also incredibly exhausted all day Tuesday, like even worse than your worst menstrual fatigue (which for me has always been a 10/10). But I tried to blame the beer, since I don’t drink that often anymore. But then the following four days I continued to feel incredibly awful, the same as before with addition digestive distress…to put it as nicely as I can. Also, to go along with the feeling of nausea and lethargy that plagued me all day was the fact that I lost a few hours of sleep each night to having to deal with this illness. So….not the beer. I guess it was just a coincidence. Or I got the virus or whatever from that store. Because Saturday night…you know the night before Easter, I woke up around 3am to the sound of my husband vomiting on our bedroom floor. Personally, I wanted to punch him in the head because he’d eaten a LOT of spaghetti recently. As I was cleaning his vomit, from permanently damaging our box spring (it’s sitting on the floor, I’m trash I know) as he took a turn destroying the bathroom, I realized how LITTLE I want to have to do this for kids. So now I am dealing with my husband as he fights the same fight (but we all know how men are about illness — I will make this sexist comment until the day I die because it IS ONE HUNDRED PERCENT ACCURATE). Yesterday was the first day I’d eaten a full meal in a week. There’s a distinct loss of appetite with this illness, whatever it was.

I turn 29 on Thursday.


Birthdays will always be an emotional trigger for me, because they (along with holidays) were opportunities for my dad to act EXTRA specially fucked. I guess it means more to ruin something special than something boring, especially if that something special is geared to make someone ELSE happy (couldn’t have that). He was always on his absolute worst behavior for my mom’s birthday. Of course. He really does act like he hates her. I doubt he’s even aware how he really feels about anything, he’s too fucked. Maybe it’s not his fault. Maybe the ability to bear the psychological torture of being raise the way he (and I) was raised is genetic, and ALL of the different kinds of abuse are learned. Because…look at my fucking brother. He really does make me sad, deep down. Being around him in person REALLY exacerbates this feeling. It gets easier if you have 0 contact and  he does dickish stuff. Makes it easier not the easiest. I guess there really is this built in need to connect with your family members, though of course there will always be those of us who cannot, or for whom the price is no longer worth it.

I guess mine is a sad reality. It’s simply not normal for me to not speak to any member of my family, not when we live this close and there’s never been this all-out word-brawl where everyone left despising one another. I think those only happen on TV. But…like…the mildly twisted thing is doing this makes me more like my dad’s family than anything else I’ve ever done. The alcoholism is on both sides, I’ve explained that one right? The whole I think the gay gene is definitely in my mom’s side of the family. The two cousins I have on that side (whom I don’t speak to, of course, though their father and his girlfriend attended my wedding) only have had one boy between the two of them, so I’d have a more accurate scope for estimating if this is real or not with more male second cousins. Of course maybe I’m inventing some elaborate history to explain my weird fetish for gay guys. There could have been a hundred reasons my great-grandparents married due to a pregnancy/never had any other children despite the way of the times in the 1920s. I know my G-grandfather was a raging alcoholic with a chronic wound/infection in his stomach from army service during WW1. He was also super popular, people would drive (horse and buggy) out to their shitty farm and be all “C’mon Art!” and he’d leave and go get plastered and my grandma would be trapped at home with her PISSED off mother (they were poor and did NOT have gettin’ drunk money). I think some or all of her own grandparents also lived with them. She was the only kid. And she always thought incredibly poorly of herself, literally through her whole life. It probably started on that farm. What a trip it’d be to find the place where it once stood, right? It’s in nearby Wisconsin. That’s the closest to a real detail as you’re getting. I wonder what’s there now. I hope it’s condos. Or a mall. That’s what Grandma would have wanted.
Have I told you about my weird thing with McDonald’s? Particularly, the way the building itself smells? Well, okay, if you’ve noticed, I know a lot about my Grandma. I’m almost certain that I know more about her than even my mother. So from the ages of….jeez lets say 5 to 12 or so….my Grandma would drive over to our house intermittently to clean, and if I was there and no one else was (which was the case a lot after school, on the weekends and during the summer) she’d take me to McDonald’s. And we’d sit there and talk. It seemed usual, but now I see how special that time was. And you probably won’t until it’s way too late, like me. Because life is cruel like that. But when I think about it, the roundabout hyper-emotional point I was trying to make was I NOW know that my Grandma was the only reason, the only person who ACTUALLY gave me a chance to be a kid. Because SHE was normal, as far as Grandma’s go. Sure she was emotional and manipulative, but a lot of grandmothers were like that, and mine was always around. Which, again, was how my life was so it didn’t seem unusual, but no one i know had that going on. I am shitty enough to tell myself that she wouldn’t want me to be unhappy and dwell on the fact that it took me six years after her death to figure that out. It makes me want to have a kid and name her after her, which will annoy me because 1) I’m not a fan of the name, just AS a name and not with the obvious emotional tribute it would entail if I chose to use it were I to need a baby name 2) It’s the name of a well-known literary character I don’t like. From an author I don’t like. And with my background everyone would THINK I was going for a theme opposite my true feelings. He doesn’t deserve it, he was a pedo. Plus – was a least favorite movie of mine as a child. I did not identify with that bitch. But yeah…

I started a post bitching about how I had a stomach virus. It turned into my getting really high on headband and realizing a really light truth to my childhood. Because life is nothing but a balancing act, right? And frankly I feel I deserve a few happy realizations.

Now I’m going to go eat, because for once in the past week I can and want to. Also, very high.

Sorry this is so fuccckking long again. The will to organize and notate these entries is strong. But I also don’t like reliving certain memories so I don’t feel like bothering to write it in an attempt to not have to TALK about it, only to READ the thing over and over again.
Plus I’m not out to impress people.
I mean i try to give off that same air in person, but I think it just registers as some lofty haughtiness. It’s not that, I’m actually poor as a fuck, always been that way, always been credit poor cash poor, in debt since the beginning. Debt OG. Yes.

OMg I am way too hungry for any more, yet I desire more.