I should be editing, but here I am on effing WordPress

Not complaining, just kind of annoyed with how my mind works. I was all pissy last weekend because the holiday ruined my ability to get any writing done OR go to pole class, so that was a bummer. (Speaking of pole – I now have one installed in my living room! I am SURE I will post pictures later, but this is going to be a more depressing blog, because, IDK it’s been awhile, I’m not just sex stories and weird shit and selfies and pot and pole dancing and writing a weird sex novel. I mean in large part that is a bunch of my personality, but that is definitely not all. I’m also severely addicted to caffeine, but that, to me, is almost like a wholesome addiction, given what I’ve done in the past) But now instead of using my entirely free Saturday to input on-paper edits (the ones I do in my car, that I KNOW you remember from my other post WordPress is clearly for selfies)

But, instead I got like a little too high, now I’m like lost in thought and it’s hard to read TINY print. Why did I use 12 size font. I mean I know why, it’s so I can be arrogant about it. But I’m still annoyed.

Okay I thought of what my worst trait is. It’s actually not the many, sundry emotional problems, it’s my inability to manage fucking money. Like. I’m very confused as to what I’ve been doing wrong, but I clearly an see that it’s something. It’s kind of my special brand of pathetic, but sometimes I mentally console myself with the idea that it’s probably for the best I’m not pregnant yet, because we really don’t have the money. But, on the other hand, I really don’t think I should let the fear of debt stop me. I didn’t with school, and now look where I am. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I am so significantly happier now than I’ve ever been in my life. To be honest, things weren’t really all that good with my husband until we both stopped drinking…and that was only like two years ago, and we’ve been together for 9 (in July).

I just feel like if I could somehow not be in debt and actually like have my shit together enough to own a house and a car that isn’t ten years old. But whatever, my car from 2008 still runs fine, and it was a gift from my Grandma, she just paid outright for it, with a check. And, if I did get pregnant, my mother in law already offered to pay for our day care, because she didn’t want fear of not having money to stop us from having kids, because we’d be great parents.

So that’s what I actually wanted to write about. Did you catch that I just described too monumentally generous older women in my life? Like. I mean. Sometimes you have to see God where you can, right? And I’ve had two great trading-outs in my life. One was when my best friend moved from our hometown to a city about two hours away to attend state school. I knew she was leaving, and about two months before she left I met my future husband, indirectly through my best friend. Then, pretty shortly after we met, we were dating, and I met my future mother in law. My Grandma died when I was 23, I think. Right after her 93rd birthday. I’ll be honest, at this point in my life I was just finished with undergrad and had a really severe drinking and adderoll and cigarette issue. I was so damn skinny. God I miss that. But not the other parts. And, the day she died, I was really strung out and fucked up, and when my mom called to tell me what happened (we’d all been expecting it….in fact, the reason I didn’t go see my Grandma right before she died is because I didn’t believe my POS dad when he told me she was dying because he’d literally said that about 40 times before in the past three years. My mom was always so disgusted with him during any of those given times, as my Grandma’s health got worse and she went from in-home care to a nursing home to a memory care nursing home, because he would seem downright excited) she didn’t ask me to come over. And I was glad, because my car had a flat tire and my then boyfriend and I were too drunk to deal with it.
Well, as you can tell, all of those were wrong moves. i see that, but you’ve got to understand a few things, this is MY family. not a stable, normal, functional family. And, I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly, but this was either right before or right after the FIRST time I tried not speaking to my dad. I know it was during the three year stretch we lived at this white trash apartment complex behind the mall in my husband’s hometown. I am currently in the midst of my second and actual attempt at cutting all ties with him.

So  I do find it interesting when my best friend and my husband like traded out, like almost in a comically obvious fashion. Then, my whole childhood, the only reason I ever had anything extra (so, things beyond the minimal amount of clothing necessary to live and a place to live and food to eat and being sent to school) had to come from my Grandma. She paid for all for my homecoming and prom dresses. She bought me a computer when I was in high school…you know…the one my dad threatened to destroy with a hatchet, mostly out of infantile jealousy?
Then, when my Grandma was in a very expensive nursing home and all of her money was gone and she had to move to a few different shitty ones at the end of her life, I met my husband’s mom. Because he lived at home when we met, I actually met his parents like the second time I ever hung out with him. I remember quite distinctly that his dad was delighted with the idea that I’d gone to a Lutheran high school. I was like…well…guess I get some benefit out of that awful experience.

And  my mother in law has been my sole source of clothing and shoes, for the most part, since I’ve met her. She routinely takes my husband and I on a big shopping trip, usually about twice a year. Last time, there were 6 new pairs of shoes. Other times, it’s a new batch of work clothing. She’s unbelievably generous. I was raised way too white trash to be that kind of generous, with people I know, myself. I have a few charities in mind for if I ever make real money as a writer. I mean it’s possible. There’s a vacuum I can fill, I just know it. But anyway.

I’m not trying to brag, obviously. That is literally never my goal. I mean when I try and talk about things i like about myself or my life, it’s really me doing everything I can to not be negative or depressive or complain or whine. Because I seriously fucking hate it when other people do those things.

Which brings me to my favorite charities, as of right now – There’s Free the Girls. They enable women in developing nations (like I know Guatemala was one of them…then I think definitely also some in Africa? I don’t feel like fact-checking) who have been rescued from sex trafficking to run their own business. Women in this country donate bras, and the other women sell them. I cannot explain to you why, but there’s this one like info-mercial about FTG and it ALWAYS makes me cry. A lot. Thinking about it makes me cry. I literally do not understand this trigger, but I really am aware of it.

And the other is called Shakespeare Behind Bars. I get annoyed when I tell people about it, because the name makes most idiots laugh. But it’s a program that has inmates in male prisons put on productions of Shakespeare once a year. It’s open to the public, in the sense that you can apply for a ticket and undergo a background check and attend if there’s enough space. My husband and I are going this year. I got the email that enrollment was open, and they’re doing A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream this year, and I was like meeehhhhh I really want to go, to my husband, and he was like…well we can probably make it happen…. So fuck it why not.

Which I guess that ties in with my first stated issue of knowing my worst flaw is how bad I am with money. Because if I have one element to my personality, it’s a total “fuck it” vibe towards spending money. I mean that’s why we’re trying to have a kid, despite our sort-of financial dependence on his parents. Which feels insane that that even has to happen, because we make a collective $40,000 ish last year. Does that NOT sound like enough for two people to live on? But no, seriously, it’s not somehow. IDK. I’m aware you can pay for advice on this sort of thing. We have Quicken once, I did not like using it. All it did was point out where we spent all of our money. Like I know, I just feel like I can’t control it from happening.

But, anyway. We’re growing our own green now. I’d post pictures, but I don’t want to make anyone jealous. It’s a very small grow, obviously, because our rented house is tiny. Renting a 3 bedroom where we live is $910 a month. Do you realize what kind of mortgage payment that would be? BUT, what are we supposed to do, pull a down payment out of nowhere? We can’t ask his parents for THAT kind of $$, we already ask for enough, on top of the things they give us on their own, which is a lot. It’s ALWAYS been a make enough to just get  by situation. And now, it’s been years since we stopped wasting a ton on beer, and booze, and cigarettes, and I constantly drank soda, like I would stop at a convenience store a few times a day for one. So disgusting. Now I’m all about black coffee and La Croix, because I’m old and need to watch calories. But anyway.  AND we’ve gotten WAY better at not eating out, or getting fast food. We almost always eat dinner at home, with things purchased from a grocery store. I’m gotten VERY good at feeding us cheaply, but still pretty healthily. Speaking of health, I’ve FINALLY started losing weight. I’m sure I’ve mentioned a few dozen times how my old drinking habits did not mix well when I finally got a desk job. I gained at least 30 pounds that first year. It was terrible. Again, I’m lucky my mother in law buys me clothing, because I went through a huge fluctuation from my earlier years of shopping with her. But, I am finally starting to lose that weight.

TO that end, like i said at the beginning, yes, we have a stripper pole now, okay, I cannot resist a pic, especially since the living room gets good morning light. IMG_9251

Yeah, we had to put it in our living room because that’s the only spot with the most space.

And guess what. My husband was INSTANTLY really good at pole. He can climb, already. He could do every spin I could remember how to show him. It’s because he’s so obsessed with pull ups, and doing shit like climbing trees or brick walls for fun. Pole is pretty much a rope to climb, but you can have a lot more fun with it. He can’t Iron-X off the bat but he’ll get there, I’m sure. I’m so jealous. Like if he went to class, he would show me up so hard on his first day. He really likes it, which I find funny.

So, IDK, maybe we’ll move back up north and open a pole studio. He DID take eight years of dance class. If I was working full time at a regular job and insuring us, I think we could handle running the studio. If it was profitable enough, we could both work there full time. I just know this whole situation we’ve got going on right now is kind of lame. Plus my husband has always struggled so much with finding a well-paying job that he doesn’t detest.

So maybe I’ll be writing a novel and dedicating a lot of time to pole fitness. There’s enough tutorials online, and now I have a pole at home, and a really in shape spotter.

That’s one thing…his job right now is really grueling, and it involves 4 months of being laid off in the winter, but he is SO cut from it. Like it’s weird being like…wow, that’s my husband’s body. He’s getting like PERFECT ab definition. It’s not fucking shock he’s so good at pole, right away, like first time he tried. And I mean, he was just rail-skinny when we met, then he got REALLY overweight for awhile there. He trimmed down for the wedding but I remember the picture of him from the night he proposed his face looked faaaaaat. I’m not being mean, I would totally say that to him and he wouldn’t be offended. He knew how big he’d gotten. And I mean, the way he is now is obviously nicer. What can I say. But now I’m like….thank God I’m so facially attractive, or people might wonder why he and I are together when we’re out in public.

But anyway, I’ve wasted quite enough time on this.

Hope all of you are doing well.

 

~Cassie

When lunch time is the only time

Deepest apologies, it dawned on me yesterday that I didn’t include the picture yesterday. I didnt mean to picture taunt, I’m always accidentally doing that to my mom, because, as you know, email is the only way I’ve spoken to her for the past three years. It’s good we have that one way to speak to one another, though when she tells me how much she misses me and how well get to see each other somehow….I just don’t have an answer. It’s not my fault the only way she gets to “see me” is if I email her a picture, but IDK I’m sure in her head it kind of is. Everyone in that family is so obsessed with blaming other people for everything , because, I mean obviously, what are they going to do, something healthy?

So that’s the picture. I would have added it last night but then I’d think about writing about one thing and write a 2500 word blog instead so. I do everything I can to spend as much time in the evening writing as I can. Writing my novel, not this blog. I can only imagine how fucked this anonablog would be if I was focusing all of my attention into it’s contents.

Come to think of it, it’s probably for the best I don’t have to time or energy to REALLY delve into my childhood, because, IDK it’s not an easy thing to pick up every day like an instrument you’re trying to learn. It’s one thing to go back to my novel, but even that even if you’re doing it every day you still lose momentum. I still have to back read a little, be like okay which “he” and “he” are going at it right now? Or whatever.

They said once that a novels sex scenes shouldn’t be gratituous and should only exist to move the plot along.

I perhaps took this too to heart. Because what i have is a novel entirely propelled about by the sexual interactions of the characters. And yeah, you do have your favorites, and it’s not necessarily the one you modeled after yourself. Not that they’re not there.

There are times when I think about how I’m just soooooo fortunate to have so much horrible human being/awful father experience from my own life.

I can’t tell if I would have rather had a happy childhood and grown up secure and stable, or if I’d rather be as I am. I think I’d keep things the same. You know that bullshit about how “the same boiling water that hardens an egg softens a potato, it’s what you’re made of not what you went through”? Well NEVER has a more perfect example of an egg and a potato come to life than my idiot brother and myself. He probably would have turned out shitty even if we had a great dad, that’s my theory on him. And it’s not sibling hate. Please. I wish we had some sort of a normal relationship. Hes so unstable he seriously couldn’t leave our Instagram friendship alone. Out of the blue he would delete me, I wouldn’t find out about it until he sent me a new follow request. Who does that? Who regularly deletes their only sibling on social media for NO reason??? I could never tell what I was going to get when I dealt with him. When he was feeling especially needy, you know because all he does is sabatoge his own life then cry about it, hed do anything for me, including “give the last drop of [his] blood” for me. Then, just as unprovoked as his weird misguided affection, would be the bouts of reviling me. One time I got a new cell phone number, I was probably 23 or so, and I texted it to him, his response was “what do I care? We never speak.” He’s too much like our father. He had no chance in life. But he’s also not worth my time.

Sounds harsh, i would guess a really good person wouldn’t abandon their brother, but never oh never did you hear me say I was that. And I mean I do resent him too. He’s my older brother and all he ever did was pick on me, order me around, contradict everything I said, invalidate anything positive I did, start fights with me out of boredom, attempt to control me in that CREEPY way our dad already was….yeah…..

In fact, every single facet of my brothers behavior was a direct mirroring of how our father treated him.

Note this is not me making his excuse for him. ITS NOT AN EXCUSE. He had the chance to lot be garbage, but consistently for the past 33 years all he’s ever done is choose to be garbage. I guess the hard work involved looks like too much, because he’s pathologocally lazy to the frightening extent our father is. Like they both have a conversion reaction if they think THEIR precious selves might be doing something that someone else could do. Combine that with the ultimate losers mentality (the “no one gives me credit for my meager amount of effort, so I refuse to put in any more”) and do you think you’ll wind up with some winners?

They’re the definition of losers – my dad and brother. The last time my dad has a job that wasn’t embarrassing was when I was 5. He was a cop, but he decided to fraudulently file an insurance report for a stolen rifle that was never stolen, when the department caught wind of it, he was told to take a six month suspension. He refused because he’s an arrogant narcissist, went to court, and lost everything because a TON of higher ups in the department despised him because he’s a horrible human being. I’d go into the rest of his pathetic work history but my lunch is almost over.

My brother and working? Well when he was 20 he got $100,000 as an accident settlement, and that’s just bound to ruin a person, especially one that was already garbage. Of course, I think you can tell who REALLY, really pushed my brother to get that money, because he knew he’d get a lot of it.

Well now I’m pissed off I guess I’ll go.

Just kidding. It’s nice writing about them but not having to deal with them. Because my brother and dad are waste of space garbage people whose faults SO outweigh their positive traits it’s not even worth knowing then.

So, if you have a shit parent, try imagining what itd be like to not ever deal them. I strongly recommend. (Disclaimer-not for the weak of heart or spirit)

Update time

Well, in the vein of trying to seem positive….how have things been?
Pretty decent. It’s that weird time of the year where I take advantage of all the free time winter affords us, and I get a lot of errands and old To Do List items checked off. One of which was getting an eye exam, going to the OB/GYN, going to the regular doctor for a physical because I haven’t done that in like ten years, and the that book class – that was last Tuesday.

It was called “How to Write a Book in 30 Days and Self-Publish.” I can’t tell, yet, I guess, if it was worth the collective $70 it cost me. It was a 3 hour spiel, all at once last Tuesday. The instructor was likeable and energetic enough, and he gave us each (all 3) of us a copy of his first book as a gift. It’s actually a valuable tool, because it’s an extraordinarily well done self-published book. I’ll be honest, younger me thought self-publishing was something lesser-than writers had to do. But, it’s so fitting to my personality to want to be in total control of this shit, self-publishing will probably be the way for me. When I get there. I know I will. I’ve firmly resolved to do the following, until I’m done:
1 hour of writing every weeknight (this can easily be done if I limit Netflix/Hulu watching)
3.5 hours of writing every Saturday and Sunday.
That’s 12 hours spent writing every week. I’m using a stopwatch to  not include the MANY breaks I take, like for household tasks, smoking weed, making coffee, etc, etc.
That’s making writing a part time job for myself. Which clearly I need to do since I can so obviously write a book.
I did that weird thing I do in that class, where because I slightly mishear, or simply don’t want to tell the truth, for some unknown reason, I lie. He asked us if any of us blogged. I didn’t hear the word right so I just shook my head no. HA, do I blog. Sorry, blog, I disavowed you in public, but it wasn’t out of shame. I kind of proud of this disturbing mess. Because that’s a great way to describe my real self. But, you better believe it, I don’t act like my real self all that often. I mean, have you SEEN some of these passages? I’ve tolerated some really fucking up shit, you know? And I’m not saying it’s good or healthy, in fact I really hope I’ve gotten the opposite point across. But, also, I don’t know, no one’s perfect, you know? You end up regretting some decisions you’ve made, but you’re allegedly only going to REALLY be haunted by what you left undone, in the end. That’s what they say anyway. Plus, what was I going to say, I keep an anon-a-blog about my abusive childhood? Yeah, that’ll really lighten the mood of any room.

I’ve also made the decision that when I do publish, I won’t use the name Cassie Stevens. This is something separate from what my writing career ~might~ one day be. I don’t want THIS being linked with THAT. Sorry, but as obsessive architect/control freak, I truly must insist on it being this way.

Last December, just a bit after Christmas, I legally changed my last name to my husband’s. We’ve been married three and a half years, at this point, but I just did it now. I didn’t tell him until his birthday, on January fourth, and he was very moved by it. Which was so my intention. At first I didn’t want to change my name, because I didn’t think it was fair that I, the wife, was the one who had to go through an obnoxious identity change at the middle of my twenties. But you know what won out, over that? The idea that I wouldn’t have the same last name as my dad. So, sad to say, that truly is what motivated that. So, I will publish under some combination of my first name, middle name, or their initials, and my now real very common last name. My first last name was as rare as my married name is common, I’ll give it that. It’s one of the reasons I liked it. My labs or customer accounts were never getting mixed up with anyone else’s. Now, it could definitely happen.

But, in less dark news. I bought a standing desk. Well, more like an extensive laptop stand. I’ll post a picture, since i like picture with diary/journal/blog entries. I like it, because it was worrying me that I was going to be spending 12 extra hours a week in a chair, staring at a computer. I already do that 42 hours a week at work. So now at least I’m standing or stretching one leg on a kitchen chair while I work on it. And this.

Also, in fun news, my work thing last Saturday when I really did myself up (see pic from last time) went well, though of course I got inappropriately wasted. Imagine. Me, drinking too much in a social situation….yeah…I’ll pause for the shock to wear off…..

No, nothing fun or sexual or swinger-y happened, le sigh. What can you do? There’s always dreamin’

Also in fun news, I signed up for a pole dancing class. It’s just an intro. It’s an hour, tomorrow at noon. I’m hoping I like it, I’m always looking for exercise I actually enjoy, because then I’ll actually do it. Like biking, indoors, on my stationary bike, in front of my TV, with a La Croix and a bowl….just like I like. But maybe this pole dancing class will work. MAYBE, the loser said, I’ll meet someone to hang out with there too. I’m kind of hoping. I was hoping a little for the writing class, but not as much as the pole dancing. The other two participants at the writing course (there was supposed to be a fourth who didn’t show) were both women. One was I’d guess late forties, the other was probably younger than me, but she was married. Both were nice enough, but we were all definite introverts. It’s weird when we’re around one another in public, because there’s just nothing but heavy awkward silence. The speaker seemed to think my hyper-protective stance over what I was actually working on was comical. We had him sign our books, because I think it’s cool to have an author-signed book, and he was like ” Good luck on your writing, whatever it is!” I was like oh ha ha ha ha ha, very funny, Don. I get it, I’m weird. That’s so the first time I’ve been told that.

So tomorrow pole dancing class. I also want to finish my new resume and start applying for other jobs, because I’m really sick of living in this area, and really the only thing I came down here for was to go to grad school, and that’s been over almost three years now.

BUT, I want to write more than work on the resume, so I should go do that first. And I’ unfortunately only twenty minutes in. So….quite a bit to go, I’d say. But I know I can do it. And we already go grocery shopping and picking up my car from Belle Tire out of the way.

Sidenote – when you have a standing desk, you really do feel the need to pompously think about how fucking healthy you’re being right now.

It’s fun

So can life be, even when many, many, many, many, many parts of it are an utter suckfest.

It’ll be two weeks tomorrow, it was my mom’s 60th birthday. I didn’t even get to see her. She’s two hours away. But I refuse to see or speak to my dad. There’s no being mentally healthy with someone like him in your life, so decisions have to be made, am I right?

Sorry to end on a bummer, but that’s me, right?

Hope you’re all doing well

PS  – the second picture is my husband and my bestest kitty – I was leaving for work one day and I was like, aww my favoritest boys are snoozing together….must take picture…..

 

~Cassie

As most sagas do, the shit continues

Okay I’m gonna start with a quote:

“I wanted to write this also, since W doesn’t know that we email, he won’t know that you know about the surgery.  He has asked me twice lately, if something should happen to you during the surgery, do you want me to call Cassie and tell her?  Well if I’m not here on earth anymore I guess he would have to decide that himself.  The things that go thru people’s minds….” [Side note – W is what we call my dad, because calling him “dad” just fucking sickens me and I told her that long ago]

This is from an email from my mom from today. I was sincerely bothered that she had just ignored my suggestion that I could come visit her while she’s recovering from her knee replacement surgery, so I just asked her if she meant to ignore that question. So today she was like oh no I’d love if you’d come and see me, I forgot to respond to that. She WAS having a really rough day yesterday,  the subject of her email was “Trying Tuesday.” So it’s all fine, which is good because you never know when I’m going to stumble across something that triggers her into her dissociative state. You’d think I was joking or kidding or exaggerating…but….alas….

SO anyway, then at the end of that same email from today, she puts this note about my POS father. OF COURSE. OF OF OF OF COURSE that’s what he’s asking her!!!! OMFG. Sometimes I wonder that if they ever find out what rage is truly made of, they might just extract it from my blood. Because it has to be a tangible thing inside me at this point, it so deeply moves my soul.
Let me break things down for you. That question, the “If something should happen to you during surgery, do you want me to call Cassie and tell her?” WHATWHATWHATWHAT kind of a question is that?!

That is TRADEMARK W, because if there’s two things that he fucking adores in this world, it’s getting to be negative and getting to emotionally/mentally abuse or distress a member of my family. Of course he would be asking my mom about what he should do if she dies, of course he needs to plant the seed of thought in her mind that she could die next Thursday. I mean we all could, but the likelihood while be operated on is pretty elevated. Want another great example of him being an absolute bastard to my mom while she’s all vulnerable and scared for an operation? The first time my mom had back surgery (the time my brother showed up looking like a heroin skeleton AND later on showed up high as fuck just to top off my very deep suspicions. My parents thought it was “pills”) it was taking a LONG time to get her IV going. Like the one right before she gets wheeled to the back to be put under, her arm veins weren’t working, and they’d been trying unsuccessfully to get it going in her hand for awhile, I KNEW it hurt really bad because I mean…my mom was grimacing from it, and then OF COURSE, what did W have to say? “Two great big arms and little veins.” by way of explaining to the nurse and doctor why it was taking so long. At one point, when they left to find someone reputed to be really good at starting IVs, W was like “Well, are we going then?” He was trying to imply it was so impossible they weren’t going to be able to do the surgery. My brother would tell me years later that my dad was being SO awful to our mom the ENTIRE drive there (about 40 minutes) that when they were in the parking lot of the hospital about to walk in, my mom just hysterically broke down in tears. He was being SO rude and so disparaging and awful and mean and nasty, like FUCKING ALWAYS. So he was keeping the general spirit of THAT feeling going for her in the prep room. My god I have such awful memories punctuated by my mom’s surgeries…great….

I guess if you think about it…my whole life was always SO punctuated by their fucking lunacy. It’s really like I was trapped in some evil cult run by a narcissistic piece of shit named Willis. Yeah, I said his real name. I don’t fucking care. What, someone might do me a favor and tell him there’s a blog about how much I fucking hate his guts? I’m literally going to piss myself laughing if you think that would bother or upset me. I’M not the one who needs to hide or be embarrassed.
I’m not harboring some dream that the power of my writing could wrought some change in that man. 1) I know there isn’t the chance that he can/could/will ever change. 2) Even if magic lightning struck and he DID change, I still wouldn’t want anything to do with him. And THAT is how you know you hate someone. Sometimes I wonder if and when I’ll ever NOT be this angry.
Like…you’re saying there could somehow come a day when I don’t fantasize about killing him? Is it still legal to admit to fantasy? I’m sure it’s not anymore. I don’t get where anger that’s bred and raised in you is supposed to go. BUT, I can tell you this, many of my line have done what I am currently doing, so I’m either repeating a genetic habit (which is kind of neat, and a lot more interesting than most people’s lives) or I’m on the right path. Maybe all the other ones on my dad’s side, a family who consistently and repeatedly broke the family up with a resultant variation on the last name and relocation for a portion of the lot, now estranged from the others. AND it still happens to this day. My dad did it his sisters, he went so far as to change our phone number when I was a kid so they couldn’t call him anymore. At one point one of his sister’s husband’s went so far as to find out where he worked then calling him at work in an attempt to mend the fences between brother and sister. My dad just took it as an opportunity to relish in being an asshole to her one last time, chortling to himself as he told me the story “I told him I’m a Stevens, not a [that guy’s last name]” in other words, it’s a part of my family history to get into permanent fights with your family members and never speak to them again, so I’m going to bring it up all cute like to be a huge dick because that’s my FAVORITE. But fucking joke’s on him, right?? See now that right there is my kind of humor. When you get to like darkly deliver a great big fuck you to someone who really did a great job of enraging you. Ignoring R did that too. I’m freely admitting that my shit with R was probably, definitely, SO wrapped up in my weird shit with my dad somehow…like….ugh just so much gnarled complicated mess. I can’t even begin to want to deal with it.

and I need to be off. Meeting the in laws for dinner. hoping to all fuck the restaurant has beer I like

late

~Cassie

Fucking scrapbooks

Long story kind of short – by way of my mother in law and then my husband, scrapbooks my mother who I haven’t seen in three years lovingly made for me are now in my possession.
One was a wedding scrapbook. It took her three years to make the wedding scrapbooks. Because she made three simultaneously, and she covers the engagement, both showers, the entire wedding day and the day after. One was for my mother in law, one for my mom and one for me. If you remember the July that I had, I remember distinctly thinking about how if I did get divorced it would be so fucking tragic that my mom hadn’t even finished the wedding scrapbooks and we were already getting divorced. That’s exactly the sort of thing my brother or father would point out, too. They were always belittling my mom (and to a lesser extent, me). And scrapbooking and picture-taking have been lifelong pursuits for my mom, so obviously making the wedding scrapbook for her only daughter was a huge deal for her. I’ve always noticed and appreciated that every year of my entire life has been scrapbooked.
But let me say that after I looked through the wedding scrapbook, I couldn’t look through the rest. She really did put her heart and soul into it, and it shows. And I mean obviously that sort of thing is going to make someone in my position sad. I’m grateful we can email at least, but it sucks missing out of years of each other’s lives, and knowing that one day sometime in the future when she’s no longer with us all these days will especially haunt me.
But what am I supposed to do? Pretend I cannot ever EVER be in the presence of my father, or communicate with him in any way, yet my mom won’t/can’t leave him. And he’s a horrible sociopathic alcoholic opiate addict narcissist who literally is SO disturbingly lazy AND selfish AND negative all at the same time to the point where it’s downright creepy to observe him.
Because I was looking through one of the other scrapbooks that was sent my way, and I couldn’t finish leafing through. There were too many pictures of my dad. Somehow seeing the image of someone brings them more to mind…particularly when you haven’t seen them in years. It just fucking disgusted me to think about him.

If you ever think “well, she’s emotional and exaggerating” or “oh he couldn’t have been that bad” please know this  – the words do not exist to express how angry someone thinking that makes me. Because victims get taught/told to keep their mouths shut around “outsiders.” Whoever is outside the locus of control is to be abused and mistrusted, even if like the case of my Grandma where that person is your financial lifeline 10/10 times. I feel so bad for my Grandma, she got the WORST possible son in law you could get for your daughter. My dad was always SO awful to her, so fucking rude and as shitty as possible as much as possible, knowing she wouldn’t say anything to his face but would instead just lose her mind at my mom when they (we) were alone. I think about how her brother, the one who died of cancer very suddenly when I was 12, must have felt when he met my dad. One time, when my mo and dad had first met, she and her brother and my dad were all drinking at the hotel bar my parents met at. My mom was NOT a bar-going sort, but her brother was and she would go out with him. Over something involving control of my mother, my dad followed my uncle into the bathroom and like…when you grab someone’s collar and slam them into a wall and keep your fist balled up under their chin while you talk to them. He did that. My Grandma told me, because my uncle had told her, probably right after it happened because the two of them were abnormally close. There’s no way she made that up. She did some manipulative stuff but she did NOT blatantly lie. I remember telling my brother this tale, shortly after hearing it. I would put us around 9 and 12 years  of age. He flatly refuted the possibility that that was even true. When i was like, well Grandma told me that Uncle Bill (who cares if you know I had an Uncle Bill..who doesn’t?) told her, so they’re BOTH lying then? He refuted it again, because by that age he was a fucking hate factory like his old man.

See, that’s what disturbs me most of all. That, because i was raised in such a hellish environment, there’s an innate meanness to me that WILL rub off in any interpersonal relationships i might manage to cultivate. Not that there’s many of those. What if I have kids and i hear my fucking dad when I’m yelling at them? I’d literally rather not have kids than think for a moment there’s a possibility I could come off to my children like my dad did to me. Because I fucking despise him. I don’t recall the last day that went by where I didn’t think about how convenient and sort-of-like-a-movie it would be if he would just drink himself to death one of these days. I don’t get how his liver is still at it after all these years. My husband tells me that it’s fucked up in a sad way that I feel this way about my dad. I suppose that’s true.

What brings a lot of this about is that my mom is having knee replacement surgery at a hospital fifteen minutes from my house next week. I said something in an email about how I could visit her and she was silent on the topic in her response email. So I don’t know if that means she doesn’t want to bother or it’d be too upsetting or I don’t know..I guess I have 8 days to figure it out, though obviously she and I can only converse when she’s at work. So that also means for the six weeks she’s recovering at home I won’t have the slightest clue how she’s doing. The last time she was convalescing post MAJOR fucking ortho surgery was when my brother and sister in law were dating so I heard status updates vice-a-vie my sister in law. That’s why there was that one night when I was really strung out feeling and drunk of course and I called adult protective services about the conditions my mother was enduring because my dad wasn’t taking care of her and he was stealing her pain meds. When you’re like him I don’t think you’re capable of actually caring for/nurturing another being, because then you’d have expended some energy on something other than yourself and that’s just not fucking possible in a mind like that. Like he and my brother always had this HUGE concern that their precious asses were going to have do work that someone else then in turn didn’t have to do. Like I said before, pathologically lazy.
But now my mom will be stuck in bed for six weeks with only my dad and useless fuckhead fucked up brother to care for her. Last time my  brother “couldn’t deal” with our dad so he just lied in bed (in the basement) smoking tons and tons of weed while my mom went without basic needs being taken care of for days and days upstairs in his old bedroom. Yeah, of course as soon as she could my mom got her own bed and bedroom. That’s always a sign things are great. My dad always liked to lie and say it was because of his snoring. But really deep down they both fucking hate each other. My mom doesn’t want to admit it, probably in large part because in her mind a good Christian wife does not hate her husband but instead continues to tolerate his abuse with sometimes good humor hoping that he’ll change, banking on it even. My dad probably knows it, but would never admit it because that would take a modicum of self-awareness, and again, people like him aren’t capable of that. I use the terms “person” and “people” loosely when referring to my father, keep that in mind.
In other news, my student loan payments jumped $200 per month. Because someone who makes what I make allegedly had $300 to spare per month for NOTHING. I have to see my in-laws tomorrow. The pro is that it will involve free dinner. With how much I cook it’s genuinely something to look forward to, not cooking. Funny how that works.

But things have been really good with my husband, so there’s that. Our third anniversary was a very nice night. He’s significantly happier at the job he’s at right now than he was. So that’s nice to know. I’ve still been keeping at working on every week day. I’ve been doing my darnedest to write every day, but sometimes i need to write huge blogs about how fuckedy my life can be. In some aspects. I guess it’s good I’m not totally Type A. There’s enough like left brain creative spirit in me to turn down the “give a fuck” on a lot of situations.

But anyway, time to make dinner. Duty calls.

~Cassie

When you don’t want to do what you know you should. Also, Spaghettios and glitter – you’ll see why.

It’s often enough, right? One thing that bothers me is the realization that if I don’t ever just get around to dealing with my past, well my childhood, I’ll probably never get over it. It’s not that I’m dying for a reason to blame all of my problems on shitty parents. It’s tempting to do that, don’t get me wrong – and it’s also not to be ignored that one’s life is shaped by their ability to interact positively with others, and I did NOT learn that ability from my parents – but it’s also tired and self-fulfilling and childish.

Your life is as shitty as your decisions make it. That’s all there is to that. Which sounds harsh I guess, because there are things I like to call Acts of God that involve something really bad happening to someone who doesn’t deserve that kind of stress. BUT, it also means that you get to definitely take credit for all of your accomplishments as well. They say people are more likely to take credit for their successes but blame their failures on others. That sounds about right.

Does anyone else ever find themselves wishing that they didn’t have negative memories/connotations from childhood attached to like…literally half of everything in existence.

The more I think about how things were, and how others acted, I realize more and more that I was literally surrounded by lunatics for my childhood. It’s no wonder I took the fuck off when I was 18 and vowed I’d never go back (to myself) and I kept that promise to myself. I’m not great at keeping promises to myself. I’ll tell you, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence assuming I wouldn’t have sex until I was married. Given what readers might know about me, that probably seems REALLY funny. It’s funny as fuck to me  at least.
So, how was I supposed to grow up and know how to garner genuine or positive social relationships with others? A few things shielded me, but most left me vulnerable to attack on all fronts. Sometimes my husband talks about how he got treated like shit by other kids when he was a kid, and he was taken advantage of/made the butt of jokes/etc. And yes, all of that is traumatizing I would know, but I was going through that same stuff only maybe worse and I didn’t have a happy, stable, functional home life, not to mention opulent especially in comparison with my own, to balance it out. The only time I was ever actually happy as a kid was when I was alone, so the afternoons between getting home from school and my mom getting home from work.
I was just talking with my husband this morning about how often I think about how I was treated when I was a kid. And more often than not I realize that I must have been behaving in such a way to foster the ill treatment I received. Because that being the cause of it all makes so much more sense than the idea that I was just surrounded by evil, malicious people my entire life. I mean my family is one thing but every other adult I interacted with? Almost every kid too? Really? Every single one of them was fucking rotten at their core? It must have been me. It makes soooo much more sense if it were me.
And I guess it’s not so hard for me to say -type that because does a kid know any better? I can tell you there were many times I was corporeally punished on more than one occasion without my even understanding why it was happening. Somehow my mom thought telling me afterwards that she didn’t agree with it happening somehow absolved her of any guilt/association. Which in turn made me REALLY disrespectful of her. I mean, think about it. When you’re in that environment, dealing with those sorts of people, even the best of use couldn’t always be cheerful and joyful and upbeat, there to chirp around like some ornamental canary to make everyone else feel better, fucking disgusting and SO what was expected of me. But, there were certainly many days when I rebelled against their fucking expectations. In part for the rebellion in itself but in much larger part because I had to take my negative emotions out the way I’d been taught. They have no one to blame but themselves for how I treat them now. So that combined with the fact that I saw nothing but other people mistreating my mother – my dad mocked her to her face in front of the kids, he discussed her weight with his kids ad nauseam, he was as rude/cruel/unkind/unloving as he possibly could be to her at all times, unless HE was feeling otherwise, then BEWARE to those who dared not mirror his exact fucking mood exactly when he expects it. Just like, when I was in my early and mid twenties, OH was there hell to pay if I didn’t always answer the phone when he called. It was always in the evening, when I knew he was hopped up on something post dinner and he was watching the TV on mute while he opiate-rambled about something I couldn’t give two fucks about, never once caring or even noticing the only responses I or anyone gave were “Mmhmm,” on 1-3 minute intervals. You know, the universal sign that someone is not interested or really listening to you drone on. It’s like that fuels him. It REALLY does feel like he’s trying to mentally smother you with his talking, until the only thing you remember is stupid fucked up shit he’s said and done and then you’re as a result as stupid and fucked up as he is.
THAT, what I just described, that’s what happened to my brother.
It like, semi-happened to me, but as you can see I’m remarkably capable compared with them. So much so it became apparent to me years ago that I would have to sever ties with them eventually. I still speak to my mother, if it were at all possible I would be more than happy to see her in person. But there’s really no escaping for her. They share a car, and my worthless father is always home, as he is ever so unemployed. So how can she get away for a day?
Remember how I said I tried disengaging myself from them once, but it only lasted like 9 months? Yeah, during that time of silence between my father and myself, my mom and brother met me in the town I lived in at the time, we ate together at a Subway, then they went back to the town they lived in and grocery shopped. Somehow, he fucking figured it out. He wore my brother down, because he’s by far the least resilient. That’s what worried me, is that he could still get people to say/admit exactly what he wanted, all those years later. Then he made an INCREDIBLY huge deal out of it, obviously, and he referred to it as “The Dinner” for a VERY long time to come, like he’d cracked some big murder investigation. That’s the thing, all of those awful personality traits/qualities that draw someone to that profession, well he had every single one of them in spades.  A friend of mine once told me hearing descriptions of my father reminded them of the sexual-assault-y cop from the beginning of Crash. I was like…yeah I would be 100% unsurprised if he pulled shit like that because he knew he’d get away with it. See, the “bad” cops, (the “few bad apples” everyone SO insists on calling them) they’re just that rotten, hollow sort of person who just so needs, so loves, so relishes having power over someone else. We all know people like that. Or at least I do. Those who manipulate and abuse to feel in control and therefore powerful. I don’t know what’s worse, being the victim of one them or being them. I suspect it’s them but I can’t say I’ve experienced that.
So, I probably had such a hard time connecting or maintaining positive relationships with others. Or, honestly, it seemed like I always had to be the bigger person, I always just had to be as nice and helpful and friendly as can be with everyone, I had to deal with some kids constantly pestering me for answers on homework but then the first chance those same assholes got they were trying to get me in trouble or making fun of me or mocking something that I did. It was fucking weird as shit. It tapered off a great deal in high school but there were still a few immature pieces of shit who did it. Mostly guys, but always those few so lovely girls. I guess I’m contentious or something, because boy did I ever bring out the BITCH in other women, particularly girls my age. I don’t know why. I don’t pretend to imagine it’s because I’m THAT much prettier than them. I mean I was, and still am, but not to SUCH a degree that it’d foster so much ill will.
So, it must have been me.
And I guess I really didn’t have a chance in life, not when it came to that. But definitely when it came to other things. Which is I guess why I feel the need to blog about the things I couldn’t do anything about. When there’s so many, if you don’t sort them out, well that’s the sort of mess that doesn’t ever sort itself.

 

Wanna know what the two trigger words I alluded to at the beginning of this were?
One is Spaghettios. Whenever I see a can of them, I think of a winter when I was a child when my father was unemployed (shockingly, right?). My brother and I were to scrap the car windshield before we departed for school. My brother did something weird to the windshield wiper in his attempt to scrap snow and ice off the windshield. It was a Friday. My dad, always SO happy to jump into FULLY ENRAGED MODE at the drop of a dime, began berating my brother for breaking the wiper. I remember so distinctly my dad saying, “I thought we could go to [local eatery] for dinner tonight, but now we’ll stay at home and open a fucking can of a Spaghettios!” Like. Without fucking fail I think that whenever I look at Spaghettios, which all right it’s shameful but I eat them from time to time. They’re good. Stop judging me. You try pretty much always having the munchies. It makes me feel bad for my brother when I remember stuff like this because he definitely got it pretty bad like all of the time from my dad. Yet still, as a younger child he was your typical my-dad’s-the-best-I-want-to-be-just-like-him-and-win-his-approval sort of son. But THAT mentality TOTALLY discombobulates with the shitty narcissistic garbage person we had as a father.
But then my other weird trigger word I came across lately makes me feel less bad for my brother. Because you know who he CONSTANTLY took his shit out on? If you guessed my mother and my Grandma and myself, you are fucking correct. I think my mom got it the worst from him, mostly because she let him treat her like dirt, and it was our template for behavior, like  I said earlier. It didn’t matter HOW upset anyone was about it, my brother was going to have his way. And most of the time my mom and her mom were more than happy to play into his bull shit. He developed this BIZARRE habit of needing to be convinced to do something you KNEW he wanted to do. He’s like that to this day (I think, he’s part and parcel with our dad as far as I’m concerned). Because the second trigger word is Glitter. I was writing it down to grab some the next time I find myself in a Dollar Tree. For crafting. Which, is one of my more dorky hobbies. It will ALWAYS make me think of a time when I was in the 6th grade when going to Bath and Body Works was a more anticipated ritual than church. The popular thing, or at least the thing I was doing, was wearing roll-on glitter ALL over my face. Well, one morning my brother thought it was undeserving of bathroom mirror time (of course the house I grew up in only has one bathroom) and he picked up our dad’s I’m-going-to-over-enunciate-this-word-on-purpose-to-exaggerate-just-how-disgusted-I-am-with-you-as-a-human-being habit really early on, so he said to me in the nastiest tone possible, “Well maybe we wouldn’t be running late if you didn’t have to rub glitter  all over your face.” And that’s what I think of WHENEVER I see the word glitter. And it’s just a prime example of how, because he was the prime victim of our father’s narcissism, he also of course emulated that behavior most. During his short-lived live-in relationship with a girlfriend when was like…21-23 I want to say? Maybe a little bit less than that, but I think they were together at least two years, he demonstrated on multiple occasions that he was going to act exactly like our dad. He got mad at his girlfriend once, while he was eating dinner, and threw his dinner in the sink. This was a favorite thing of my father’s to do. He loved depriving himself of a meal then rubbing it in everyone’s face that they were eating and he wasn’t and it sure looked good. I am not joking or exaggerating or embellishing at all.

So, I have like all this godawful shit that I need to like cleanse myself of. But truly, I’ve developed a single way to do that. Anonymously. On the internet. BUT, people read this shit. There are people in existence other than my co-sufferers who know about our suffering. That’s HUGE for people like me. And of course, there’s so many ways to clear the gunk out, as it were, but this is certainly mine.

Things are going really well. My husband and I celebrated our three year wedding anniversary last week, and we actually cherish and treasure each other now more than we ever have. We’re both admittedly happier now with each other than we’ve ever been. I still wouldn’t recommend the SO ROCKY path we used to reach here to others…but I’m willing to admit when things are good too, you know. I don’t want to come off ass some sort of complainer. I just need to talk about certain things. Or else it’s like this emotional pain a person carries around but never works through, it ends up strangling off their only means of ridding themselves of it. It literally leaves people physical wreaks as well as emotionally and mentally. Look at my mom.

But anyway, I didn’t want to spend the ENTIRE Sunday on a blog, and this is long as fuck as it is. But I wanted to check in. Things are good. I got an emerald ring for an anniversary gift. Out of all the classic effeminate gifts, I do so love fine jewelry most of all.

So, things are good, like I said. And I’m doing my damnedest to write every day, because all the writing advice tells you you have to make a habit of writing, and then and only then will craft come down to join you. So that means blog-neglect. Especially my cooking blog. I guess I’m a pretty wanton cook because I rarely do the same recipe three times, and that’s my standard for claiming I know a dish well enough to advise others how to make it.

So, au revoir

~Cassie

I’ll be honest, I deprioritize this bitch

I’ve told you that before, but this had been my longest WP lull since I gave it a go, I think. Which is actually a good thing because it means I’ve been writing creatively every day instead. Rarely will a work day go by that I don’t make time for it, or this. I guess yesterday was an exception, but dinner was especially time-consuming to make. I’ve also been keeping with exercising at least every week day, and with not drinking. I’m not saying I officially quit drinking, but it does sometimes worry me that I know if I start stopping isn’t all the easy.

But enough on that. I know you’re not supposed to inform someone you care about something more than them, but that’s what’s happening with what I spend my time writing.

So little of my time is about me, and what I need to do. That’s life and all, and one must work, and keep a house, and feed oneself, and then you’re like well I better at least make efforts to work out because I don’t want to be in my fifties and decrepit like…some parents…I have…. My terrible father is actually physically healthy…it’s….it’s odd when you think about how mentally/emotionally/spiritually he is FUUUUUCKED. I mean he definitely has been morbidly obese before…like when i was 5 and he got kicked off the police force and he didn’t work for 3 years, his weight ballooned to almost 300 lbs. That’s what happens when you do nothing but eat and drink vodka (you stash the empty bottles in a garbage bag under the stairs and your wife and daughter find these bags on separate occasions) and sleep and watch TV. I never had to witness it firsthand, my brother does though. My mom never says a WORD about it to me either but I’m assuming she knows it’s going on too.

It’s so odd to me, to think that there are people who DON’T have innumerable memories and their dad being in the blackest of rages and him storming through the living room on his way to the bathroom (this is where you keep the vodka you’re currently drinking. On the top shelf not even that out of view) and you’re both frozen like prey animals just fucking hoping he won’t feel the need to pick a fight with you or attack you. Because, when he’s fucked up, that’s WHAT he’s going to do. He WILL get your attention, he WILL control your emotions if in no other way than by tearing you down and making you yell along with him, he WILL control all things and people in HIS house. Geh, that’s his name. Fucking gross. I seriously fucking hate him. My husband finds it comical how I react when someone mentions dads. I just fucking can’t anymore. I spent 25 years tolerating him in some way, and he was only getting worse, he’s still only getting worse, from what I hear. If you look at how fucked up and low functioning my mom and brother really are you’d see how fucking dark their reality is Being around someone like him is literally emotional cancer. It’s so bad. I Am NOT just seeing the worst and over-dramatizing everything, that’s what he always told me I did. FUCKING no. I am not the crazy one. I am the only sane one. If you’re the only sane one of four, you’re going to feel out of place. If you can’t tell I’ve thought this before.

I sometimes think about how odd it is that there are other women who didn’t grow up with dads who told them how fat they were getting. With dads who constantly berated and belittled their mother for her weight (among just a panoply of other things), and somehow even more frequently mentioned how she needed to lose weight, not to mention the constant food bullying. When he himself obviously has an overeating disorder (remember the weight problem). Also opiates make you crave sugar, so that has a strong influence on it too. Ugh, being around him when he was high was awful. He would just talk…and talk…and talk…and talk about nothing for hours. Never once noticing that the only time you spoke was to say “uh huh,” and “yeah” and the other basic social indicators one is paying attention. He did not care, he didn’t want to have a conversation or acknowledge anyone else’s ideas (because that would give them the strong misgiving they were a person whose autonomy was to be respected) he wanted a captive audience whom he was controlling by making them listen to his IN DEPTH movie scene act-outs where he played both characters. MY GOD, I know it sounds funny but it was actually SO upsetting once I figured out how fucked up he had to get to go into that mode.

See now THAT is one really tried and true way to see if someone is actual garbage or not. Do you dislike every version of them? Have you ever known someone whose bipolar who has a likable “up” side? I knew a girl like that in high school, but maybe she wasn’t bipolar as much as had violent mood swings because her childhood was chaos because of her pill head mother and non existent father and string of mom’s boyfriends, also I think one set of grandparents molested her (not lying or exaggerating at all, I would not so such a thing over such a matter). But either way. See I hate every version of my dad, they’re just all insufferable in their own fun little way. I feel that same way about my sister in law, who is certainly bipolar. I can’t stand her when she medicated out of her mind, I can’t stand her when she’s hyper-annoying-happy-make-kind-of-mean-comments, I can’t stand her when she’s…I don’t know she gets so depressed she can’t even move quickly. Like it stiffens the joints. I would know. My entire childhood was very depressing, but you know the longer I have zero exposure to my piece of shit nut job dad and brother (sorry brother but we both know who you’re like) the better i feel. Omg so hard to reason why that might be. Even with the never ending stress and sadness that comes from not being able to have anything to do with my own mother. Who, for her faults is very sweet, and a good person, and she and I were very close when I was young. I was obviously a moody distant teen, but now I guess I can say that I was steeling myself for what was to come. It hasn’t been easy, but I can say it gets better.

Am I telling everyone to cut ties with a toxic and/or narcissistic relative? Well I’m not telling you not to. I mean most people can’t even fathom it as an IDEA. It’s ALL RIGHT. Sometimes, fucking sometimes, we need to let go. You don’t want to. There’s a noticeable amount of pain involved, in a few different ways, but you’re fucking free at the end, you get that right? That’s how you know it was the right move, improvement follows. Isn’t that always the case with our decisions? I’ve had my fair share of good luck along the way, don’t get me wrong – I consider finding my husband when I did as very fortunate…despite…the terrible things we’ve done to one another…. – but I don’t feel like I have many  debits in my “karmic points” category…or however you want to think about it.

Because wouldn’t suffering have meaning if you somehow truly benefited from it? And how is being psychologically healthy when everything around you was not  not the best benefit you could hope for? I’ll admit, there were a few random ass factors that really influenced my natural intelligence into something a girl could really fucking use:
1) I had no competition. Aside from my father’s disappointment that I never found a sport to be good at, I outshone my brother on all plains.
2) I got a lot of positive affirmation. I was frequently praised and rewarded for both good behavior and good grades. From my parents, my Grandma, even teachers at school (sometimes….I feel like I made teachers feel conflicted because I did very well academically but I acted out on occasion, certainly much more than any other girl so I think they hated me. Some of them certainly acted like it).
3) I adapt quickly. This probably is something I learned, to just go with the flow, so to speak, from being in such a chaotic environment.
4) I had access to education and materials meant for a much higher-placed family on the economic ladder. Meaning, I went to private school until I was 18, and I did get a car for free when I was 16….then a different, brand new one when I was 19…..THEN I ended up dating someone from age 21 on whose parents paid our rent up until quite recently. ALSO because of my Grandma then later my mother in law, I’ve always had a person in my life who is incredibly generous, particularly with buying me things, especially clothes and shoes. When my dad was being a shitty prick about how expensive the Memory Care home we had to put my Grandma in cost – Because “you’re supposed to leave something for your children’s children” which I think is my dad perverting some Bible verse – my mom told me that he’d said that to her, implying my Grandma ought to have the decency to die before all of her money ran out and HE didn’t get any, and she was like “And he says that and when you were in high school your Grandma had to buy all of your homecoming dresses.” And that is very true, she bought all 4 homecoming and both prom dresses, and probably paid for the shoes and hair too. I had four fancy black dresses in my closet right now. Assuredly, they’re too small for me right now, but one day. One was for my husband’s cousin’s wedding. One was for a wedding my husband stood up in. One was for my bridal shower with my father in laws extended family. And one was for my undergraduate graduation day. All lovely, and black, and all purchased by the same kind woman. Let it not be said I don’t notice and appreciate her generosity. I did not grow up in a world where you would be like that for someone who did nothing for you. Grandma’s shit had ALL these strings attached.

So, as you can see, some people might envy me my advantages. There’s a few of them. I mean most people don’t have these cheekbones AND these tits…let me tell you. But…I mean I guess I’m more arrogant, or at least arrogant seeming, because I feel like I fucking earned a few advantages. But most people don’t even deserve to know that about me. So let them think what they want. See you don’t care so much what others think when you go about your whole life so well aware they’re so wrong. And, I mean I kind of pity the people who didn’t get to know the older, more self aware version of myself. I guess that’s why we’re hotter when we’re younger, right?

My life has gotten better with every passing year. I don’t say that as a taunt to fate, that things could get so much worse. Because, if you’ve read ANY of my good blogs, the ones people in France just fucking love (my BFF pointed out that people in France would be much more likely to understand the slight fluidity to my marriage’s monogamy….if we want to call it that….I have fucking bad memory flashbacks of the year I wasted so much time and energy and resources on a fucking hopeless alcoholic piece of shit loser….I’ll leave it to my astute readers to remember who that fucking sounds exactly like) then you’ll remember that I HAVE suffered, a lot, recently. But it’s like however low you sink, the peak to come is that much higher? Is that making sense? At this point I can’t be certain if I make sense anymore. I hate it when I lose my topic but I also can’t really help it. See how distracted I get by stories about my dad? Ugh. Must be odd to not have those dark memories.

Husband’s home. Must jet.

 

~Cassie