Just when you feel like you're ready to give up on some things, life will sometimes surprise the fuck out of you.
And sometimes, just when you feel like everything is going to be a certain way in life, well then, life says "HAVE AT YOU!!"
And sometimes, I've no choice but to lay there, curled up in a ball and whimper like a 5 year old until the darkness hath passed.
And then of course, sometimes, I need to just be a fucking adult about it all and stop letting these "pockets of time" collect in my life, allowing them to be master and commander of my tower.
And then, there are other times in life, when you must realize that you can't keep getting away with starting a sentence with the word "and" all the god-damned time.
Yesterday.
Today.
Tonight.
Hell, even in this fucking moment.....
Have all been deep moments of clarification for me. SCARY moments. I find my heart beating staggeringly high tonight, and I keep sighing that infamous sigh, like the ones you keep doing after you let out a good long cry? Except that I haven't cried at all day today. Not a good hard cry at least. I get moments of tearfulness that have been surprising the dogshit out of me, but no good bouts today.
I feel like a ghost. A ghost in denial of being a ghost, who just wants to get back to life, and the living, like Patrick Swayze firsts starts off in Ghost. I wanna find that tall mutherfucker on the subway transit, and MAKE him show me how to touch reality again. To force him to show me how to feel the way a real human should feel....Not this transient otherwordly bullshit that is flowing through me. I get shaky, and afraid. All the fucking time. Like my body is constantly floating away from itself, or rather, my spirit, or soul, or whatever the hell you wanna call it. I call it "the spirit", because she's still well aware of her surroundings, and DOESN'T want to be in this worldly world of living. But when I speak of the flesh, it doesn't feel the same. And it also prefers being called it, rather than he/she/him/her. It's and it, and fine with "it".
There are a million things I wanna say, with not enough daylight provided in time and space to do so. My fucking heart aches and yearns in all of this, like maybe I'm destined to say every word that has been "God-Spaken" unto "thee", yet I lack the confidence in doing so, in such a small frame of "timeandspace". (Yes, I wrote it as a one-word-interface on purpose, so FUCK YOU.) Everything just seems to float in and of one another, and I confuse one thing, matching it with something else totally irrelevant. But somehow I manage to make them relevant to one another, in my own "midnight ramblings of a madman", and I feel spectacularly schizophrenic in my creative ability to make sense of things no one has the ability to do.
Ever had the pleasure of indulging in any of Richard Kelly's works?
It's JUST FUCKING LIKE THAT. Just so.....I remember watching Donnie Darko for the first time, and just being utterly BLOWN AWAY by Kelly's ability to speak the minds of the insane, and make it all sound sane. There was reason to his rhyme, and all along, I spoke the fuckin language of the speakless.
What was even moreso, was "Southland Tales", which is based in great proportions offa his graphic novel series, which I had never even fuckin heard of, until of course I saw Southland Tales. I was won't to be a tad secretly dissapointed when I first saw a youtube preview of it all, what with "THE ROCK" having the star role, and Sarah Michelle Gellar as his sidekick. But FAITH told me not to doubt out loud, and so I didn't. And when that movie spoke it's realmic ancient language to me, my rustic wings took flight, and soared far and beyond it's worldly limits. And here I am today, still taking snippets of the adventure with my morning tea, living in a realm my body doesn't belong, but my spirit does.
This blog was started by faith. A faith ignited millions of moments ago, it's trailings of existence in a galaxy far far away, but I know it has served it's purpose. It's been therapeutic for my need to spiritually bleed. And oh how it fucking hurts to bleed all over your beautiful kitchen floor like this, but there is such a strong sense of gratification in knowing I can finally die this death in peace. This child-death. A fragmented patch of humanity that only existed in darkened hallway corners and linen closets. And now she can say goodbye to the goodly world, and be a bane of existence for all humankind.
I have eternally struggled with boundaries and limitations. I now know why, but I had a need not to know. I turned my head this way and that, covering my ears like that of an autistic, blaring out the hurts of loud noises, fire alarms, barking animals, yells. Whatever the fuck made my spiritual ear shrink in bodily terror and rage. But this time I was made to give listen, and I have no room for denial. The agnostic beauty stands toweringly so above me, showing me I no longer have a choice in the matter. Time to absorb the beauty and be embued with the power of truth. "So sit still, and shut the fuck up", it relays to me. "It's gonna be one hell of a ride."
There are still so many blanks. So many patches of nonsense that don't add up for shit. This frustrates but soothes me. I have a need not to know, remember? Everything is ironic to the extreme right now. I was birthed in irony. My bloodlines run deep in the facets of irony. And now that I have a universal proof of this, I want to disown it with all my being.
From what has been understood as MY understanding, it has been reported to me that I never did "walk" like most other regular babies/toddlers. Rather,I got up and RAN down the hallway, as my mother put it."I never even KNEW you could walk in the first place, Rachel. You just got up and ran one day", is what my mother said.
The same can be said of my husband. His mother retells the story with ASTONISHING similiarities.
More can be said at the opportune, but faith advises me against it...
I will only say that, metaphorically speaking, this is how we play out our lives in the long run of things:
We've known how to "walk", for a very long time, mind you. We've seen the ins and outs of everyone falling on their asses too, and prey witness to how much their asses hurt in the aftermath of these falls. We astutely observe these happenings, and make for ourselves our own path. We decide that we don't want to let everyone know we can "walk", just for all to see us fall time and time again.
Our path is clear:
Let everyone think what they will. We will be ready when we can walk with our eyes closed, and our hands tied behind our heads, and just when they think they know what we'll do next, we'll bolt upright and head for the hills, where no one will think twice about who we are or what we were, and then we can be on our merry way.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Soulmates
My husband and I had a very long, heated conversation last night. It started around 9 in the evening, and ended around 1 in the morning. Most of it took place in our front yard, and most of it was accompanied by tears, both mine and his. (Which is a fucking rarity indeed on his behalf).
It all started with a t.v. show. A FUCKING t.v. show, for cryin' out loud. The Wizard of Oz was on TNT, or some channel or another, and it had already been on once, so I asked if maybe we could find something else to watch. I said it kindly, without any hint of sarcasm or puns, which is usually the star of our witless banter to one another, but I figure, hey, I don't want him to feel any disrespect just because he's a fan of the Cowardly Lion, and I ain't. So then he retorts with, "Yeah, I'll change the channel. I'm sure we can find SOMETHING with plenty of people killing other people." My mouth was ready to bolt out, "FUCK YOU", but my heart, the sucker of my being, suggested otherwise. I had been putting up with this kind of bullshit from him all week though, and ignoring it wasn't going to solve this issue. My heart felt like it was going to explode with hurt and rage.
Let's rewind to earlier this weekend for a sec....well, actually, earlier this week, to be exact. Tuesday evening, I'm at my therapist's office, working hard on past childhood hurts. Ones that still affect me to this day, unresolved issues that cause me to lack in my performance when the chips are down. Ones that can somehow magically be dealt with by pretending to talk to your mother, when really it's just an empty fucking chair, because you are terrified like the child you once were, to tell her how hurt she made you feel when she did/said certain things. So I am safe in this four cornered room, with a nun dressed in black, telling me it's okay to say whatever's on my mind. So I do. I don't yell, or cuss, or rage. I cry like a fucking baby, telling her how much it hurt me that she thought I was capable of protecting myself at such a young age, and that I wasn't capable, and if I was ever, that I surely would have done so. When all was said and done, my therapist asks, "If there was anything your mom could have said or done to make you feel better, what would that be in this moment? What would you want her to say or do?" My heart wretches in more pain and agony at the thought of this possibility, as I'm crying uncontrollably, and I sputter. "I just want her to hug me and tell me sorry. I don't want her to be angry or defensive. I just want a hug." Mother Katherine lets it all soak in for me, and she says the one thing that forever changed my weekend...."So that's all you want is it? That's all anybody ever wants. Someone to hold them and say "I'm sorry". They don't have to take it all back. They don't even have to have an explanation. They just need to hug you and tell you sorry."
Now I can fast forward a bit to this weekend. At Barnes and Noble. My therapist had suggested a book, for all the "work" we've been doing in therapy. She says it can be helpful in dealing with "triggers", and all the everyday stress and anxiety that accompany those said "triggers". "Getting Through The Day: Strategies for Adults Hurt as Children" by Nancy J. Napier, is what she suggested. I go into Barnes and Noble, half expecting it to be there, but my hopes where mostly on "Touching from a Distance" by Deborah Curtis (Joy Division's Ian Curtis' wife). I had watched the movie Control late night Friday and into Saturday morning, and so I was inspired to learn more of Ian Curtis's wife's perspective on the relationship between the 2. Whoever played the role of Ian in that movie did a fan-fucking-tastic job of doing so, he was so much like the real Ian, I just couldn't take my eyes away, even when he started doing his famous flailing to and fro dance, which is utterly fucking ridiculous, but insanely endearing at the same time. So yeah, anyways. I'm running away with myself yet again. I get to the information desk with more stock put in "Touching from a Distance" than "Getting Through the Day", and again and made an inner fool for my thinkings. Deborah Curtis' book is no longer in print. But alas, the latter is readily available for my reading pleasure. The bookstore clerk kindly hands me my book, and I'm on my merry way to the sit down area of Starbucks, to get a start on this quest. I have no idea what I'm in store for. I haven't a clue how much help this book is going to offer up, how many chords it strikes in my own heart to read this published piece of literacy. I'm nowhere near done, but 1/4 of the way through the book, I'm constantly putting into place my husband's situation as well, as he's had it far harder in life than I, and the emotional scars of neglect are far deeper than mine could ever be. He covers the scars up very well these days, with "love" and "forgiveness". But to the ones close enough, we can still see the blood of those wounds leaking through those bandages of his definition of "forgiveness" and "love". I think about how much of an impact it has on our relationship, our ability to thrive as a family in the crazy fuckied up world we live in today, and I feel a sense of overwhelming panic at the thought of where we could ultimately end up, if we don't learn to get our shit together. On the surface, we look okay to everybody. MORE than okay, to be truthful. And we are, for the most part. But behind closed doors, where it really matters, where the real life takes place, it can be quite another story. This is where the real hurt exists. This is where we can be ourselves. Where we are safe to bleed and let our bandages fall. And so you see, this is where it isn't as "picture-perfect" as many of those who know us think it is. It's comparable to Scarecrow's ward on Batman Begins. Loonies here and there, and not many nights of restful sleep and peace. There are cries out in the night, and people needing to be locked away and pumped full of valium. But somehow we are given free reign, allowed to scrape these lowly halls, in our own vicinity of survival and past childhood terrors. So I'm thinking, maybe we need to learn to be safe in our own closed quarters...Maybe we can learn to know that behind closed doors, it doesn't have to be a repeat of what our own childhoods were. Maybe we can let it be a place of refuge, not only for Mike and I, but for our children too. It actually is for the kids, we've learned to perfect that dance for our children, but for ourselves. We need to learn to value ourselves enough to care about having a place of safety. And in our own midnight hauntings of past hurts, we haven't been able to see that place for ourselves. It's been so scary and hurtful that all we've cared about was how in the hell to get away from that pain and misery long enough to catch our breath. But now, it's time. It's time to start looking for a "place of our own" behind closed doors. One where Snookms and I can be "safe". A garden of serenity, of peace, of refuge, of control. Where only WE are allowed to give permission of who does what, and how and when and where. We are masters of our own towers here. Sometimes you have to fight to become master though. And even sometimes you have to fight for the terrain to do so.
So that's what I was doing in the front yard at ten o'clock last night....
Fighting for our "terrain". Our tower of refuge and freedom.
More of a spiritual fight, with spiritual weapons, because old demons resurface here, in these realms, where one is reaching out to another in safety. They like to think they have a say so in these sorts of things. These old demons of the past. Insecurity disguises itself as an overcompensation for competition. Fear comes out as false bravado, and the desire to be loved and accepted but never having to pleasure of either one, comes out as "I don't give a fuck what you think". Keep in mind that this is all a "spiritual" battle we are fighting, and in most cases, out there in the "real world" is where all this "false bravado" and "I don't give a fuck what you think" should fall into place. NOT in our own private lives, between "soulmates" when it all comes down to the core moment of being with that kindred spirit, and one's eyes meet another's in humility and compassion. You know those moments. Those are the moments we see as a child, when we think we want to marry Elvis because he's just absolutley beautiful, or Darth Vader, for that matter.
So when Mike replies to me that he thinks he can find a show with plenty of people killing people, I know he is sneakily trying to insert a "past childhood hurt" reply to me, and I take a minute, amongst all the past tsunamis of hurts and let the pain go to that inner child part of me, the one that's always wanted to run at the first sight of verbal abuse, and let it flow into her. My adult self asks my inner child, what does it need to say or do, in order to gain control of this situation, other than run. She tells me, quite plainly, "Take a stand for what it yours".
So I do.
I tell Mike that it is hurting more and more everyday to hear him say these hurtful things and that I don't know how much more I'll be able to tolerate. I then ask my inner child what else she needs to do, and she wants to go sit out on the front porch, and enjoy the beautiful summer night. She's always loved those. She loves watching the fireflies, and breathing in the humid night air, and hearing the June Bugs humm their encrypted tune into the midnight air. So I calmly close the curtains and blinds for the night, grab a bottle of water and some cotton candy ice cream, and go outside and sit and do exactly that. I feel a peace come over me that I haven't felt for years, in the midst of taking a stand for what is mine. It's a small step, I know, but here I am. I enjoy hearing teenagers giggle to one another down the street, trying to live out these last few weeks of summer vacation, before school starts up again. I hear the neighbors across the way, packing up the last of their worldly belongings in a giant U-Haul, because their moving to North Carolina in the morning. I am jealous of this, but at the same time happy for them. I take pleasure in living vicariously through them, pretending Mike and I are the ones at the wheel, our kids and our belongings packed away in the back, on our way to new adventures. I imagine the sun on our backs, and the beautiful scenery on the way there. I even take care to imagine what it'll be like once we get to our destination, and how the new home looks, and the excitement of unpacking our belongings. Setting up each of the kids' rooms, the living room, wondering where I'm gonna hang my Anakin/Darth Vader posters. I find a simple and sweet joy in all this. It was a means of escape as a child, when I had no control over what I could do to soothe myself outwardly.
Mike saunters out 20 minutes later, apologizing. I know he truly is sorry, and I accept his apology, and his hug. But I know this isn't the end of it. We make small talk, and the subject of our neighbors moving to North Carolina comes up.
This is where Mike always gets antsy...The times when it comes to other people and their "successes in life"... and the conversational flow becomes limited, stopped up, if you will, like there's a dam of forbearance that's been long held at bay, and Mike's powerful will and inner struggle to keep it under control comes into play, and I can feel this. I can sense this the way Master Yoda senses the attack of the clones. I always do, so I always let Mike do what he needs to do to gain control of himself, and allow him to tuck away yet another facet of his soul.
But not tonight.
I press further.
I ask questions.....
"What if" questions. Questions I've had in the back of my mind since the day we've met, but never had the balls to ask.
"What if I was somehow able to come across as the sole provider for the family, and I brought in enough income for us to live ANYWHERE we ever wanted to live?....Where would you wanna live?"
I knew his answer: "I don't know."
More uneasiness ensues, yet I press.
"Where have you always dreamed of living?"
"Here, I guess." He weakly replies.
"Here? Really?" (which there is nothing wrong with, but his uneasiness tells me he isn't speaking the truth.)
"Hmmmm. I've always pictured us living in other states. Like maybe Colorado, or Arizona, or hell, maybe even North Carolina".... I trail off.
He quickly spouts off the whole "Nice place to visit, but wouldn't want to live there" bullshit that he always chants, but I'm not buying it. I can sense so much of his anxiety in the air that you could cut that shit with a knife.
So I do.
"How would you feel if I really did somehow become the "breadwinner" of the family? Would you be happy for me?"
I already know what his answer is, but I have to get to the bottom of his reasoning. He tries to hide his displeasure in talking about this, as he dishonestly replies that he would be happy.
"You don't seem too confident in that answer. Would you really be happy for me?" I ask in earnest.
"For you, yes. For me...I dunno", he mumbles.
I sigh with relief at his willingness to be honest.
-Now we're finally getting somewhere....
"So why wouldn't you be happy for yourself? You're unsure of this, why?" I prod.
"You just don't understand. That's all. You're not looking at it from my perspective." More uneasiness from him.
Little does he know that that is ALL I do, is try to look at it from his perspective. I can understand his need to feel like "head of household". But does he understand my need to get out and try my chance at soaring? I ask him this very question....
But he doesn't have much to say. His ocd tics start up, and he's ready to go in for the night. This is the usual way things play out. I start crying through all this, because it's very hard for me to take a stand for what's mine.
But I'm doing it.
He says "I'm done" and walks back into the house. I am allergic to when Mike does this, because in my child like eyes, it's abandonement. He's walking away from me, a familiar feeling. I cry in this moment a desperate cry. I begin to pray quietly out loud, asking God for answers. Asking myself, "Where am I going with all of this? What is it that I want?"
I make up my mind that I want Mike's support, the same way he gets mine. I want equality. I don't want it to be so easy for him to give up and walk away on me and my complicated emotions, my difficulty in relaying what's on my mind.
But then, I ask God, in complete earnest, "Is what I'm asking for too much?"
I cry at the thought of this even more. I want to be reasonable. I don't want to be ridiculous in my requests.
A minute later, Mike is walking back out to me. He's not apologetic, but that's not what I was hoping for anyway. Just another chance to talk.
He tells me that "Just because I've got some book telling me that everything everyone does doesn't mean it always has to be about what happened to them when they were a kid. It just doesn't!"
In this moment I want to fight for my right to defend my case, to cry out "YES IT FUCKING DOES!!!LOOK AT US!!"
But I don't.
It hurts so much to hear him say these words aloud to me, that instead, I begin to dissassociate. I picture a means of escape from this pain. It's the only way I can sit through what he's saying and still look human. I picture myself dying a pain-free death. I think of the least painful way of dying, and go with it for as long as I can. At least until he is done saying what he is saying. The adult part of me is still listening though. Hoping somewhere in there is a breakthough.
He says, "Maybe not always this is the case. But sometimes, maybe it is".....
His voice breaks.
"Maybe sometimes, that person is always feeling wrong, with everystep of the way that they take. Maybe that person is always feeling horrible, like they don't deserve anything that's ever been given to them. Maybe they just want to be happy, but no matter how hard, they just can't.
Maybe that person is afraid"....
Tears flow like a river, and a relief washes over me for his willingness to be vulnerable, to be truthful.
I get out of my lawn chair and slowly walk over to Mike, wrapping my arms around him gently, kissing the tears that are running down his own face.
"I'm here for you Mike. I always will be. I will always be a safe place to go, when nothing else is. And I want you to be that for me. We can be that safe place for each other."
"I just wish I could be happy. I just wish I knew which job out there would make me happy. One I could be excited about getting up and going to everyday. Framing is like that most of the time, but it has no future for us. No security when I get too old to work. I don't want to have to struggle the way my dad is now, the way your mom and dad HAD to".
I tell him that no matter what kind of job anybody has, that it has to do with an inner peace that one carries around with them, so that it doesn't matter what one's place of employment is, they can have the ability to be happy no matter WHERE they are, or WHAT they are doing.
-They could be shoveling shit, and STILL be happy.
Then I tell him that we both need to find that inner peace, because that will provide more security for our future than any financial means could. And I also remind him of what my dad spent his whole life doing, and where it got him in the end.
(He spent his early years of marriage and being a father dedicated to getting his Airframe and Powerplant mechanic license. Later on, he was able to pursue a career as an airplane mechanic, and eventually a supervisor at United Airlines. When 911 took place, all of that took a shit for the worse, my mom and dad lost their house, their cars, and everything else they had spent their whole life working so hard for. Much later, they were able to get back on their feet and eventually get approved for 100% on VA disability and Social Security, but not before taking it up the ass by life and it's fucked up way of dealing.)
I then compare my parent's experience with his father's, not much different from our own, minus that fact that Mike doesn't drink, do drugs, or neglect us as a family. His dad was a framer practically his whole life. He took a shot at other opportunities, which didn't seem to work out to well, like car mechanics, and remodeling. But Mike's dad always wound up back in framing.And now he has no retirement, and doesn't even have the energy it takes to battle for his right to Social Security Disability, because he spent his years breaking his back building houses for everyone else.
When Mike was a kid, his parents constantly fought, both physically and verbally, causing even more stress in Mike's already nightmare environment(he didn't know all the issues he was struggling with as a kid had anything to do with OCD until he was an adult) and resulting in severe migraines everyday for Mike as a child. Mike's dad truly did love his family, he just didn't have what he needed to make it work for everyone, so he resorted to drinking and doing drugs, which of course, only made matters worse. When it came to having to acknowledge that the family could no longer work with him being a part of it, you can imagine how devasting this was to Mike's father. So he fought it with all his might. Until, of course, he realized how much pain it was causing Mike. He then was left with the bittersweet choice of learning to let Mike's mother and the family go, or only making matters worse by being the cause of all Mike's migraines. It was then that he sacrificed his life-long dream, warped by bad choices and barely liveable circumstances, so that his son could live a life that was free of so much of the stress he had caused.
I still see/hear that sacrifice in Mike's dad's eyes and voice every time we see him. Behind his surliness, and unwillingness to show emotion is a lost and alone man, only hoping a praying for some semblance of hope. I can imagine the prayers he is praying to whatever God is in existence for him, if any. Even just the utterances of sacrifice he offers up, to take one last stand against life, and the bullshit circumstances it so awfully manages to present:....
"Dear God, or whoever could be listening... Please let my children be everything that I couldn't. Please let them fullfill everyone of the promises that I wasn't able to. Let them feel the love that I was unable to express, but always felt, and let them be able to share that love with their own kids someday. If I was unable, dear lord, let them be able. I sacrifice my chance, so that they may. Let this be my redemption for my past transgressions. Let this be my way of saying 'I love you'".
I say all this, out loud to Mike, and it seems to bring a clarity to Mike's way of thinking, way of feeling, way of showing his own love, that I have never seen before.
An understanding, that it's okay to feel safe, it's okay to feel good, it's okay to be successful, and to be happy for others when they've succeeded in doing so.
Everything's......gonna be......
Okay....
It all started with a t.v. show. A FUCKING t.v. show, for cryin' out loud. The Wizard of Oz was on TNT, or some channel or another, and it had already been on once, so I asked if maybe we could find something else to watch. I said it kindly, without any hint of sarcasm or puns, which is usually the star of our witless banter to one another, but I figure, hey, I don't want him to feel any disrespect just because he's a fan of the Cowardly Lion, and I ain't. So then he retorts with, "Yeah, I'll change the channel. I'm sure we can find SOMETHING with plenty of people killing other people." My mouth was ready to bolt out, "FUCK YOU", but my heart, the sucker of my being, suggested otherwise. I had been putting up with this kind of bullshit from him all week though, and ignoring it wasn't going to solve this issue. My heart felt like it was going to explode with hurt and rage.
Let's rewind to earlier this weekend for a sec....well, actually, earlier this week, to be exact. Tuesday evening, I'm at my therapist's office, working hard on past childhood hurts. Ones that still affect me to this day, unresolved issues that cause me to lack in my performance when the chips are down. Ones that can somehow magically be dealt with by pretending to talk to your mother, when really it's just an empty fucking chair, because you are terrified like the child you once were, to tell her how hurt she made you feel when she did/said certain things. So I am safe in this four cornered room, with a nun dressed in black, telling me it's okay to say whatever's on my mind. So I do. I don't yell, or cuss, or rage. I cry like a fucking baby, telling her how much it hurt me that she thought I was capable of protecting myself at such a young age, and that I wasn't capable, and if I was ever, that I surely would have done so. When all was said and done, my therapist asks, "If there was anything your mom could have said or done to make you feel better, what would that be in this moment? What would you want her to say or do?" My heart wretches in more pain and agony at the thought of this possibility, as I'm crying uncontrollably, and I sputter. "I just want her to hug me and tell me sorry. I don't want her to be angry or defensive. I just want a hug." Mother Katherine lets it all soak in for me, and she says the one thing that forever changed my weekend...."So that's all you want is it? That's all anybody ever wants. Someone to hold them and say "I'm sorry". They don't have to take it all back. They don't even have to have an explanation. They just need to hug you and tell you sorry."
Now I can fast forward a bit to this weekend. At Barnes and Noble. My therapist had suggested a book, for all the "work" we've been doing in therapy. She says it can be helpful in dealing with "triggers", and all the everyday stress and anxiety that accompany those said "triggers". "Getting Through The Day: Strategies for Adults Hurt as Children" by Nancy J. Napier, is what she suggested. I go into Barnes and Noble, half expecting it to be there, but my hopes where mostly on "Touching from a Distance" by Deborah Curtis (Joy Division's Ian Curtis' wife). I had watched the movie Control late night Friday and into Saturday morning, and so I was inspired to learn more of Ian Curtis's wife's perspective on the relationship between the 2. Whoever played the role of Ian in that movie did a fan-fucking-tastic job of doing so, he was so much like the real Ian, I just couldn't take my eyes away, even when he started doing his famous flailing to and fro dance, which is utterly fucking ridiculous, but insanely endearing at the same time. So yeah, anyways. I'm running away with myself yet again. I get to the information desk with more stock put in "Touching from a Distance" than "Getting Through the Day", and again and made an inner fool for my thinkings. Deborah Curtis' book is no longer in print. But alas, the latter is readily available for my reading pleasure. The bookstore clerk kindly hands me my book, and I'm on my merry way to the sit down area of Starbucks, to get a start on this quest. I have no idea what I'm in store for. I haven't a clue how much help this book is going to offer up, how many chords it strikes in my own heart to read this published piece of literacy. I'm nowhere near done, but 1/4 of the way through the book, I'm constantly putting into place my husband's situation as well, as he's had it far harder in life than I, and the emotional scars of neglect are far deeper than mine could ever be. He covers the scars up very well these days, with "love" and "forgiveness". But to the ones close enough, we can still see the blood of those wounds leaking through those bandages of his definition of "forgiveness" and "love". I think about how much of an impact it has on our relationship, our ability to thrive as a family in the crazy fuckied up world we live in today, and I feel a sense of overwhelming panic at the thought of where we could ultimately end up, if we don't learn to get our shit together. On the surface, we look okay to everybody. MORE than okay, to be truthful. And we are, for the most part. But behind closed doors, where it really matters, where the real life takes place, it can be quite another story. This is where the real hurt exists. This is where we can be ourselves. Where we are safe to bleed and let our bandages fall. And so you see, this is where it isn't as "picture-perfect" as many of those who know us think it is. It's comparable to Scarecrow's ward on Batman Begins. Loonies here and there, and not many nights of restful sleep and peace. There are cries out in the night, and people needing to be locked away and pumped full of valium. But somehow we are given free reign, allowed to scrape these lowly halls, in our own vicinity of survival and past childhood terrors. So I'm thinking, maybe we need to learn to be safe in our own closed quarters...Maybe we can learn to know that behind closed doors, it doesn't have to be a repeat of what our own childhoods were. Maybe we can let it be a place of refuge, not only for Mike and I, but for our children too. It actually is for the kids, we've learned to perfect that dance for our children, but for ourselves. We need to learn to value ourselves enough to care about having a place of safety. And in our own midnight hauntings of past hurts, we haven't been able to see that place for ourselves. It's been so scary and hurtful that all we've cared about was how in the hell to get away from that pain and misery long enough to catch our breath. But now, it's time. It's time to start looking for a "place of our own" behind closed doors. One where Snookms and I can be "safe". A garden of serenity, of peace, of refuge, of control. Where only WE are allowed to give permission of who does what, and how and when and where. We are masters of our own towers here. Sometimes you have to fight to become master though. And even sometimes you have to fight for the terrain to do so.
So that's what I was doing in the front yard at ten o'clock last night....
Fighting for our "terrain". Our tower of refuge and freedom.
More of a spiritual fight, with spiritual weapons, because old demons resurface here, in these realms, where one is reaching out to another in safety. They like to think they have a say so in these sorts of things. These old demons of the past. Insecurity disguises itself as an overcompensation for competition. Fear comes out as false bravado, and the desire to be loved and accepted but never having to pleasure of either one, comes out as "I don't give a fuck what you think". Keep in mind that this is all a "spiritual" battle we are fighting, and in most cases, out there in the "real world" is where all this "false bravado" and "I don't give a fuck what you think" should fall into place. NOT in our own private lives, between "soulmates" when it all comes down to the core moment of being with that kindred spirit, and one's eyes meet another's in humility and compassion. You know those moments. Those are the moments we see as a child, when we think we want to marry Elvis because he's just absolutley beautiful, or Darth Vader, for that matter.
So when Mike replies to me that he thinks he can find a show with plenty of people killing people, I know he is sneakily trying to insert a "past childhood hurt" reply to me, and I take a minute, amongst all the past tsunamis of hurts and let the pain go to that inner child part of me, the one that's always wanted to run at the first sight of verbal abuse, and let it flow into her. My adult self asks my inner child, what does it need to say or do, in order to gain control of this situation, other than run. She tells me, quite plainly, "Take a stand for what it yours".
So I do.
I tell Mike that it is hurting more and more everyday to hear him say these hurtful things and that I don't know how much more I'll be able to tolerate. I then ask my inner child what else she needs to do, and she wants to go sit out on the front porch, and enjoy the beautiful summer night. She's always loved those. She loves watching the fireflies, and breathing in the humid night air, and hearing the June Bugs humm their encrypted tune into the midnight air. So I calmly close the curtains and blinds for the night, grab a bottle of water and some cotton candy ice cream, and go outside and sit and do exactly that. I feel a peace come over me that I haven't felt for years, in the midst of taking a stand for what is mine. It's a small step, I know, but here I am. I enjoy hearing teenagers giggle to one another down the street, trying to live out these last few weeks of summer vacation, before school starts up again. I hear the neighbors across the way, packing up the last of their worldly belongings in a giant U-Haul, because their moving to North Carolina in the morning. I am jealous of this, but at the same time happy for them. I take pleasure in living vicariously through them, pretending Mike and I are the ones at the wheel, our kids and our belongings packed away in the back, on our way to new adventures. I imagine the sun on our backs, and the beautiful scenery on the way there. I even take care to imagine what it'll be like once we get to our destination, and how the new home looks, and the excitement of unpacking our belongings. Setting up each of the kids' rooms, the living room, wondering where I'm gonna hang my Anakin/Darth Vader posters. I find a simple and sweet joy in all this. It was a means of escape as a child, when I had no control over what I could do to soothe myself outwardly.
Mike saunters out 20 minutes later, apologizing. I know he truly is sorry, and I accept his apology, and his hug. But I know this isn't the end of it. We make small talk, and the subject of our neighbors moving to North Carolina comes up.
This is where Mike always gets antsy...The times when it comes to other people and their "successes in life"... and the conversational flow becomes limited, stopped up, if you will, like there's a dam of forbearance that's been long held at bay, and Mike's powerful will and inner struggle to keep it under control comes into play, and I can feel this. I can sense this the way Master Yoda senses the attack of the clones. I always do, so I always let Mike do what he needs to do to gain control of himself, and allow him to tuck away yet another facet of his soul.
But not tonight.
I press further.
I ask questions.....
"What if" questions. Questions I've had in the back of my mind since the day we've met, but never had the balls to ask.
"What if I was somehow able to come across as the sole provider for the family, and I brought in enough income for us to live ANYWHERE we ever wanted to live?....Where would you wanna live?"
I knew his answer: "I don't know."
More uneasiness ensues, yet I press.
"Where have you always dreamed of living?"
"Here, I guess." He weakly replies.
"Here? Really?" (which there is nothing wrong with, but his uneasiness tells me he isn't speaking the truth.)
"Hmmmm. I've always pictured us living in other states. Like maybe Colorado, or Arizona, or hell, maybe even North Carolina".... I trail off.
He quickly spouts off the whole "Nice place to visit, but wouldn't want to live there" bullshit that he always chants, but I'm not buying it. I can sense so much of his anxiety in the air that you could cut that shit with a knife.
So I do.
"How would you feel if I really did somehow become the "breadwinner" of the family? Would you be happy for me?"
I already know what his answer is, but I have to get to the bottom of his reasoning. He tries to hide his displeasure in talking about this, as he dishonestly replies that he would be happy.
"You don't seem too confident in that answer. Would you really be happy for me?" I ask in earnest.
"For you, yes. For me...I dunno", he mumbles.
I sigh with relief at his willingness to be honest.
-Now we're finally getting somewhere....
"So why wouldn't you be happy for yourself? You're unsure of this, why?" I prod.
"You just don't understand. That's all. You're not looking at it from my perspective." More uneasiness from him.
Little does he know that that is ALL I do, is try to look at it from his perspective. I can understand his need to feel like "head of household". But does he understand my need to get out and try my chance at soaring? I ask him this very question....
But he doesn't have much to say. His ocd tics start up, and he's ready to go in for the night. This is the usual way things play out. I start crying through all this, because it's very hard for me to take a stand for what's mine.
But I'm doing it.
He says "I'm done" and walks back into the house. I am allergic to when Mike does this, because in my child like eyes, it's abandonement. He's walking away from me, a familiar feeling. I cry in this moment a desperate cry. I begin to pray quietly out loud, asking God for answers. Asking myself, "Where am I going with all of this? What is it that I want?"
I make up my mind that I want Mike's support, the same way he gets mine. I want equality. I don't want it to be so easy for him to give up and walk away on me and my complicated emotions, my difficulty in relaying what's on my mind.
But then, I ask God, in complete earnest, "Is what I'm asking for too much?"
I cry at the thought of this even more. I want to be reasonable. I don't want to be ridiculous in my requests.
A minute later, Mike is walking back out to me. He's not apologetic, but that's not what I was hoping for anyway. Just another chance to talk.
He tells me that "Just because I've got some book telling me that everything everyone does doesn't mean it always has to be about what happened to them when they were a kid. It just doesn't!"
In this moment I want to fight for my right to defend my case, to cry out "YES IT FUCKING DOES!!!LOOK AT US!!"
But I don't.
It hurts so much to hear him say these words aloud to me, that instead, I begin to dissassociate. I picture a means of escape from this pain. It's the only way I can sit through what he's saying and still look human. I picture myself dying a pain-free death. I think of the least painful way of dying, and go with it for as long as I can. At least until he is done saying what he is saying. The adult part of me is still listening though. Hoping somewhere in there is a breakthough.
He says, "Maybe not always this is the case. But sometimes, maybe it is".....
His voice breaks.
"Maybe sometimes, that person is always feeling wrong, with everystep of the way that they take. Maybe that person is always feeling horrible, like they don't deserve anything that's ever been given to them. Maybe they just want to be happy, but no matter how hard, they just can't.
Maybe that person is afraid"....
Tears flow like a river, and a relief washes over me for his willingness to be vulnerable, to be truthful.
I get out of my lawn chair and slowly walk over to Mike, wrapping my arms around him gently, kissing the tears that are running down his own face.
"I'm here for you Mike. I always will be. I will always be a safe place to go, when nothing else is. And I want you to be that for me. We can be that safe place for each other."
"I just wish I could be happy. I just wish I knew which job out there would make me happy. One I could be excited about getting up and going to everyday. Framing is like that most of the time, but it has no future for us. No security when I get too old to work. I don't want to have to struggle the way my dad is now, the way your mom and dad HAD to".
I tell him that no matter what kind of job anybody has, that it has to do with an inner peace that one carries around with them, so that it doesn't matter what one's place of employment is, they can have the ability to be happy no matter WHERE they are, or WHAT they are doing.
-They could be shoveling shit, and STILL be happy.
Then I tell him that we both need to find that inner peace, because that will provide more security for our future than any financial means could. And I also remind him of what my dad spent his whole life doing, and where it got him in the end.
(He spent his early years of marriage and being a father dedicated to getting his Airframe and Powerplant mechanic license. Later on, he was able to pursue a career as an airplane mechanic, and eventually a supervisor at United Airlines. When 911 took place, all of that took a shit for the worse, my mom and dad lost their house, their cars, and everything else they had spent their whole life working so hard for. Much later, they were able to get back on their feet and eventually get approved for 100% on VA disability and Social Security, but not before taking it up the ass by life and it's fucked up way of dealing.)
I then compare my parent's experience with his father's, not much different from our own, minus that fact that Mike doesn't drink, do drugs, or neglect us as a family. His dad was a framer practically his whole life. He took a shot at other opportunities, which didn't seem to work out to well, like car mechanics, and remodeling. But Mike's dad always wound up back in framing.And now he has no retirement, and doesn't even have the energy it takes to battle for his right to Social Security Disability, because he spent his years breaking his back building houses for everyone else.
When Mike was a kid, his parents constantly fought, both physically and verbally, causing even more stress in Mike's already nightmare environment(he didn't know all the issues he was struggling with as a kid had anything to do with OCD until he was an adult) and resulting in severe migraines everyday for Mike as a child. Mike's dad truly did love his family, he just didn't have what he needed to make it work for everyone, so he resorted to drinking and doing drugs, which of course, only made matters worse. When it came to having to acknowledge that the family could no longer work with him being a part of it, you can imagine how devasting this was to Mike's father. So he fought it with all his might. Until, of course, he realized how much pain it was causing Mike. He then was left with the bittersweet choice of learning to let Mike's mother and the family go, or only making matters worse by being the cause of all Mike's migraines. It was then that he sacrificed his life-long dream, warped by bad choices and barely liveable circumstances, so that his son could live a life that was free of so much of the stress he had caused.
I still see/hear that sacrifice in Mike's dad's eyes and voice every time we see him. Behind his surliness, and unwillingness to show emotion is a lost and alone man, only hoping a praying for some semblance of hope. I can imagine the prayers he is praying to whatever God is in existence for him, if any. Even just the utterances of sacrifice he offers up, to take one last stand against life, and the bullshit circumstances it so awfully manages to present:....
"Dear God, or whoever could be listening... Please let my children be everything that I couldn't. Please let them fullfill everyone of the promises that I wasn't able to. Let them feel the love that I was unable to express, but always felt, and let them be able to share that love with their own kids someday. If I was unable, dear lord, let them be able. I sacrifice my chance, so that they may. Let this be my redemption for my past transgressions. Let this be my way of saying 'I love you'".
I say all this, out loud to Mike, and it seems to bring a clarity to Mike's way of thinking, way of feeling, way of showing his own love, that I have never seen before.
An understanding, that it's okay to feel safe, it's okay to feel good, it's okay to be successful, and to be happy for others when they've succeeded in doing so.
Everything's......gonna be......
Okay....
Friday, July 25, 2008
I'm freakin sleeeeeeeepy
Where do I WISH I was right now??? Fucking Comic-Con....That's where.
G4 Network is sponsoring Comic-Con all week long, and I sit and watch jealously as I writhe and twist and turn. What-the-fuck-EVER. Psssssh.
I ate WAY too much at Chili's. I am in love with the salmon there, and the baby back ribs, and now I feel like I'm going to puke "love" all over the place. I think I overdid it by asking for a coffee to go with all that. Blech.
My kids are all sleeping in the living room tonight, sprawled out on the floor watching Drillbit Taylor. Good fucking movie. Really funny. We saw it at the movie theater when it first came out, and I didn't expect it to be as funny as it was, so I had to buy it when it came out on video.
Snookms B-day is coming August 7, and I'm still not quite sure what to get him yet. My dad was at the pawn shop on 10th Street today, and called me to tell me that they had a Jackson Flying V for sale there. In mint condition and will take 300 for it. So I'm kinda thinking about getting that for him. He's already got 2 Jacksons to boot, but there not flying v's, and I know deep down he's always wanted one, no matter HOW MUCH he tries to deny his "Testament" and "Sacred Reich" roots. I've always wanted to play one too. Only problem is that you can't really play em sitting down due to the shape factor. But that's minor. I dunno. We'll see. I also want to get him the Avatar box set, because he's totally into Avatar (yes, the Nick cartoon, but fuck you, it's bad ass) and has gotten me hooked too. We had to take a 2 hour break at Holiday Inn just so we could watch the Avatar movie they were premiering on Nick that night. It was fucking awesome. Way worth missing out on tan, blonde, big tittied lifeguards and neverending waterslides for 2 hours. For real.
It's funny how many fucking birthdays we have to deal with in August. Mine, my son David's, my brother Eric's, and then of course Snookms. I will be turning 33 on August 1st. I can't believe how fast time goes by. And it only goes by quicker as the years pass. Fucking amazing. I lost count of how old I was after 30. I don't feel old or anything, but birthdays are just somehow different once you turn the big "3-0". Again, I don't feel old, or think it's an old age, I just have this mentality that old is as old does. If you're 100, but you feel 20, well then shit. You ain't old. If you're 12 and feel 80, vice versa. Most people that meet me don't believe me when I say that I have 3 kids, and when they see that I have a 12 year old, an 11 year old, and an 8 year old, they REALLY don't believe me. I think it's mostly because I'm short, and dress like a 12 year old boy who can't make up his mind if he's goth or punk, but sometimes I like to think it has something to do with other things. :)
My mom usually looks pretty fucking young too. She's in her mid 50's....
I hope I look as good as she does when I'm 50. Doubtful. Very doubtful.
My dad is pretty much the same way, but he has some gray in his ponytail and beard, which gives his age away quicker than he'd like. He's still quite the looker for an "old fart" though.
But enough about that. What about me? What's everyone going to get me for my birthday??? I've been whining for the Carnivale Box Set for 2 years now, but nobody's got it for me. My dad totally got me into the show when it was still airing on H.B.O., but by the time I subscribed to H.B.O., they only had the second season on demand. So my experience was comparable to blue balls. I'm thinkin that if I get any birthday cash, that that is what I'm going to put the funds towards. I just can't live without dear ol' Samson. I love his little one-liners.
I also wanted this awesome Mongoose at fucking WALMART of all places, but it has mag-wheels, which I love me the shit out of, so it could've come from Satan himself, and I still would've wanted that bike. It's frame is white with brown accents, and not bad for 100 fat ones. I hope someone gets it for me. Either that, or some roller skates with heavy duty knee and elbow pads. Otherwise I'll be fucked. Oh, and an Ipod or mp3 player. With lotsa death metal, thrash, and 8-bit already downloaded onto it. Hopefully it'll be Black Dahlia Murder and Depreciation Guild. And some 80's shit. Gotta have muh 80's muzak. Where the fuck would I be without Joy Division?
So how 'bout some birthday love?
G4 Network is sponsoring Comic-Con all week long, and I sit and watch jealously as I writhe and twist and turn. What-the-fuck-EVER. Psssssh.
I ate WAY too much at Chili's. I am in love with the salmon there, and the baby back ribs, and now I feel like I'm going to puke "love" all over the place. I think I overdid it by asking for a coffee to go with all that. Blech.
My kids are all sleeping in the living room tonight, sprawled out on the floor watching Drillbit Taylor. Good fucking movie. Really funny. We saw it at the movie theater when it first came out, and I didn't expect it to be as funny as it was, so I had to buy it when it came out on video.
Snookms B-day is coming August 7, and I'm still not quite sure what to get him yet. My dad was at the pawn shop on 10th Street today, and called me to tell me that they had a Jackson Flying V for sale there. In mint condition and will take 300 for it. So I'm kinda thinking about getting that for him. He's already got 2 Jacksons to boot, but there not flying v's, and I know deep down he's always wanted one, no matter HOW MUCH he tries to deny his "Testament" and "Sacred Reich" roots. I've always wanted to play one too. Only problem is that you can't really play em sitting down due to the shape factor. But that's minor. I dunno. We'll see. I also want to get him the Avatar box set, because he's totally into Avatar (yes, the Nick cartoon, but fuck you, it's bad ass) and has gotten me hooked too. We had to take a 2 hour break at Holiday Inn just so we could watch the Avatar movie they were premiering on Nick that night. It was fucking awesome. Way worth missing out on tan, blonde, big tittied lifeguards and neverending waterslides for 2 hours. For real.
It's funny how many fucking birthdays we have to deal with in August. Mine, my son David's, my brother Eric's, and then of course Snookms. I will be turning 33 on August 1st. I can't believe how fast time goes by. And it only goes by quicker as the years pass. Fucking amazing. I lost count of how old I was after 30. I don't feel old or anything, but birthdays are just somehow different once you turn the big "3-0". Again, I don't feel old, or think it's an old age, I just have this mentality that old is as old does. If you're 100, but you feel 20, well then shit. You ain't old. If you're 12 and feel 80, vice versa. Most people that meet me don't believe me when I say that I have 3 kids, and when they see that I have a 12 year old, an 11 year old, and an 8 year old, they REALLY don't believe me. I think it's mostly because I'm short, and dress like a 12 year old boy who can't make up his mind if he's goth or punk, but sometimes I like to think it has something to do with other things. :)
My mom usually looks pretty fucking young too. She's in her mid 50's....
I hope I look as good as she does when I'm 50. Doubtful. Very doubtful.
My dad is pretty much the same way, but he has some gray in his ponytail and beard, which gives his age away quicker than he'd like. He's still quite the looker for an "old fart" though.
But enough about that. What about me? What's everyone going to get me for my birthday??? I've been whining for the Carnivale Box Set for 2 years now, but nobody's got it for me. My dad totally got me into the show when it was still airing on H.B.O., but by the time I subscribed to H.B.O., they only had the second season on demand. So my experience was comparable to blue balls. I'm thinkin that if I get any birthday cash, that that is what I'm going to put the funds towards. I just can't live without dear ol' Samson. I love his little one-liners.
I also wanted this awesome Mongoose at fucking WALMART of all places, but it has mag-wheels, which I love me the shit out of, so it could've come from Satan himself, and I still would've wanted that bike. It's frame is white with brown accents, and not bad for 100 fat ones. I hope someone gets it for me. Either that, or some roller skates with heavy duty knee and elbow pads. Otherwise I'll be fucked. Oh, and an Ipod or mp3 player. With lotsa death metal, thrash, and 8-bit already downloaded onto it. Hopefully it'll be Black Dahlia Murder and Depreciation Guild. And some 80's shit. Gotta have muh 80's muzak. Where the fuck would I be without Joy Division?
So how 'bout some birthday love?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Pissing the night away with wonder....
I can't help but wonder about these very random, but very self-important things in life....
- What exactly is going through my husband's mind when his OCD triggers the tics that disable his ability to follow through with a physical action? Like, for instance, when he stops in mid-fuckery......Is it because OCD's conduits are telling him that he might go to hell for enjoying sex?
- What is it about odor that makes pizza smell good and armpits smell horrible? They are essentially one and the same.
- Why does my nun therapist still somewhat frighten and intimidate me? Is it because of her "habit", her social stature in the Theologist's building, or the fact that she hovers almost 2 feet above me height wise?
- What exactly is the ingredient/s in a banana that manages to constipate a person?
- The common thread that lie between the autistic, bi-polar, schizophrenic, and obsessive compulsive? What is that thread? I know there is one that connects each of these. Where/what/why/when and how though??????
- What is it about Kevin Spacey's role in American Beauty that justs rocks my fucking socks off?
- Why oh why did Darth Vader's mask reveal have to be so god-damned dissapointing? (until Attack of the Clones reared it's beautiful head, that is). I always pictured Darth Vader to be way the fuck hotter under that spine-tingling helm of his. I will still insist that some day Snookms don the Vader get-up to bed one night. Either that or General Grievous's. Bring those six-way sabers, baby.
- Was it really fair for Mace Windu to get a purple lightsaber? (I used to call em life savers when I was just a wee little lad.)
- Was General Grievous once human? I marvel at this one everytime I watch Revenge of the Sith. More of Emperor Palpatine's manipuliative shenanigans, I s'pose?
- What exactly is that genetic component that enables my filipino/caucasian features to resemble that of a hispanic moreso than a malaysian?
- Why do all mother's born abroad have the tendency to cuss in their native language when they get pissed at their kids? My mom still tries to pull that crap. (although it IS rather a bit of a hoot).
- Is it the PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that causes my husband to have a pathological aversion to all rated R/X movies, or the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? This one rather frustrates the shit outta me.
- I wonder the same in regards to his fear of losing loved ones. Sometimes he won't even be allowed to breathe, unless he says "prayers" just right.
- Sometimes my son David shows signs of inheriting this said OCD. I really hope not. The Jr. already exhibits many traits, which is usually pretty much a given with autistics anyway. I just don't know how some people can get through the day and STILL have a God-damned smile on their face for the days ahead.....OCD sufferers are fucking TROOPERS.
- How good of a job would Jim Carrey do trying to pull "Ash's" role from the Evildead series? My kids have said that he would make a good chainsaw/sawed-off shotgun wielder, or at least give Ash a run for his money, if nothing more.....That would be awesomeness beyond belief if Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell did a revise of the Evildead and Army of Darkness bit, what with today's special effects technology. Gimme some sugar baby.
- What the fuck's a 32 year old girl (woman...whatever!!) like me doing with carpel tunnel already? I don't jack off all that much..........anymore.
- Okey doke. That's all I have. For now.
(This list to be continued, as I'm sure everyone's undies are WET with anticipation)
American Psycho at it's finest
This isn't the blog about you Sex. It's the previous one. :)
But here is the #1 reason why you should see American Psycho if you haven't already....
But here is the #1 reason why you should see American Psycho if you haven't already....
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Psychological Warfare
The Joker...
Dark Knight....
Heath FUCKING Ledger for Christ's sake...
How I loved that movie to pieces. Best Batman movie, by far. The Joker in a nurse get up just made my heart sing with delight. Groove was DEFINATELY in the heart. And I always thought Scarecrow was my favoritest. Guess I'll have to trade in my Deviantart Scarecrow-rendered screen saver for one with the Joker in his nurse dress. Damn did he pull it off.
His anarchist hinted nature suggested many things to my inner subconcious. Pure chaos, in it's rawest form. And Two Face. I can't wait to see where else they go with this.
Also, Hellboy 2 was quite delicious. Charming, funny, and delicious. Now everytime I play GH3 and encounter "Lou", I get a fuzzy warm feeling all over. How quaint!
I titled this particular blog just so, because that's what I felt in watching The new Batman: Psychological Warfare...between Batman, Joker, and Harvey Dent (aka Two Face). All 3 characters had some sort of inner soul struggle, with only one coming out sure of himself. A complete mind fuck. It made you go back and forth from wanting to be a do-gooder, to wanting to wipe humanity from the face of the earth. I really loved how the movie ended. I want to watch this movie over and over and over. And Scarecrow's recruits from the booby hatch make me giggle with glee.
Am I an asshole for this? The world may never know.
I skipped out on therapy last week. After running my son all over Riley for his appts., my bad/sewn foot just didn't have the zest it usually does on Tuesday afternoons. So I opted against driving yet another half hour against Indianapolis's gridlock (I drive a stick, mind you, so the clutch is a BITCH and a HALF on my bad/sewn foot) just to get all my emotions dumped out on the floor of some poor unsuspecting nun's office. It felt rather nice to take a break from those sorts of emotions for the week. Everytime I go there, it feels like I'm tearing open old, old, old wounds, that have healed themselves over long ago. Which is essentially, what I really am doing, but these wounds healed over wrongly, I s'pose. Like maybe they healed, but there was something stuck in those wounds that shouldn't have been there all along, but got stuck in there during the healing process. Things I am getting out know. Mother Katherine says it's supposed to get worse before it gets better. I trust her in this, and hope it's all very true.
Snookms booked us and the fam a surprise stay at Holiday Inn's Carribean Cove on Saturday, which was quite pleasant. Probably our best stay there yet. We had one of the shittiest rooms there, and still managed to enjoy ourselves. We were all much more organized this time, having gone the last 3 times and learning from our "mistakes", so it took away from the stress. Mike and I have this ridiculous habit of avoiding intimacy with one another when these "stressful" situations prevail, (and when I say "intimate", I don't mean fucking, I mean like, looking each other in the eyes longingly, stopping and hugging one another in our passing of each other in close quarters, reaching over and petting each other's legs affectionatley while we drive, THAT kind of intimacy) and I made up my mind before we went on our merry way, that I wasn't going to do this, and that I was going to point it out that I was hoping he wouldn't do the avoiding of intimacy thing either. And it really seemed to help. A lot.
I also brought my Women's Devotional bible too, so I could have backup in case my mental psyche went amiss. It didn't, but I still read it anyway, just because it's nice to get a daily dose of spiritual support in this mad, crazy, fucked up, but ever so delightful world. I always go back to that verse in Corinthians, can't remember if it's one or two, but the one about love, and what love is. I also really like to read Romans and Revelations. Lotsa good insight there.
I've been reading "Sex's" blogs alot, and a theme that she seems good at reiterating is rules. No-no's if you will. I am daunted by this ideal, just because I've never been good at following rules. Not that I don't want to follow them, it's just that because of my fucked-up way of taking information in, I don't always get exactly how they are supposed to go, and then the next thing you know I am spelling out the recipe for disaster. With writing, I disregard rules. Like Otep rants in Blood Pig, "Words remain my only escape". And in escaping the harsh reality of this world, I make for myself my own set of rules, especially in writing. My rules are that there is no fucking rules. But, Sex has a point: If you want anyone else to pay any fucking attention to what the hell you're saying, well then, you better saddle the fuck up and get on the rule horse. And I guess, for the most part, I DO indeed want people to pay some sort of attention to what I'm saying, but then again, there are times when I just don't give a fuck anymore and I just start babbling whatever the fuck comes off my fingertips and onto this here keyboard of mine. The next thing I know, I'm looking around, and nobody's even there anymore. I've lost them all at "Hello", so to speak.
But if alone is where I need be, and if no one shall go with the flow of my prickly purple prose, well then, I s'pose this is where I was meant to be all along. I can't keep changing myself for the sake of others. (unless of course I shot you out of my vagina. That, within itself, is a completely different story.)
I like "Sex's" style, it seems void of many rules that I see in other's writing styles, but I don't know if that's just because I've been reading her blog, and not a whole lot of her "actual work", but her rawness is what appeals to me most. I think in today's standard, that is what a lot of potential readers are looking for. A certain rawness of emotions that just grab out at your heart and either make you laugh your fucking ass off, or make you so angry you want to rip the heart outta someone's ass. Not that I care one way or the other if that's what my writing has the impression of doing to others, because I write to get shit off my chest. But she, she's right up there with Augusten Burroughs in my "book" as far as writing goes. I laughed when she said that her mother suggested she write about being a mother. I feel the same fucking way when my mom goes on those rants as well. But you know?...I'd think you'd make a fine way of doing it, "Sex", especially with the way you use your words. It's what I'm in the process of doing. That's what got turned down at Publish America. My being a bi-polar mommy on paper. My autobiographical utterings. I didn't really go into all of it with the intent of making it a published work, but once it was all said and done, the people who had read it highly suggested it, which inflated my ego hulk style, and here I am paying for my rejection a year later. It's the first time I submitted anything to anyone, so I couldn't help but take it personally. I'm a virgin in all of this.
So take my hand "Sex", and show me "the way".... Kidding of course. Maybe I'll get up enough balls to try submitting to someone else, but right now I need to go sit in a corner and lick my wounds for a bit. I don't know if you got to read any of the comments I left you in your archives, but I left one shortly after I wrote "A day in the life of the Turner's humble abode". You had inspired me to write that, with something you wrote in your May of 2008 archive. Something in regards to "ice sculptures", was it not?
So now, I'm thinking about the comment you might leave, if indeed you leave one at all "Sex". It'll probably be something like. "Wow. You wrote a whole blog entry about me. Now I KNOW you're a stalker." Piss off. :D
Dark Knight....
Heath FUCKING Ledger for Christ's sake...
How I loved that movie to pieces. Best Batman movie, by far. The Joker in a nurse get up just made my heart sing with delight. Groove was DEFINATELY in the heart. And I always thought Scarecrow was my favoritest. Guess I'll have to trade in my Deviantart Scarecrow-rendered screen saver for one with the Joker in his nurse dress. Damn did he pull it off.
His anarchist hinted nature suggested many things to my inner subconcious. Pure chaos, in it's rawest form. And Two Face. I can't wait to see where else they go with this.
Also, Hellboy 2 was quite delicious. Charming, funny, and delicious. Now everytime I play GH3 and encounter "Lou", I get a fuzzy warm feeling all over. How quaint!
I titled this particular blog just so, because that's what I felt in watching The new Batman: Psychological Warfare...between Batman, Joker, and Harvey Dent (aka Two Face). All 3 characters had some sort of inner soul struggle, with only one coming out sure of himself. A complete mind fuck. It made you go back and forth from wanting to be a do-gooder, to wanting to wipe humanity from the face of the earth. I really loved how the movie ended. I want to watch this movie over and over and over. And Scarecrow's recruits from the booby hatch make me giggle with glee.
Am I an asshole for this? The world may never know.
I skipped out on therapy last week. After running my son all over Riley for his appts., my bad/sewn foot just didn't have the zest it usually does on Tuesday afternoons. So I opted against driving yet another half hour against Indianapolis's gridlock (I drive a stick, mind you, so the clutch is a BITCH and a HALF on my bad/sewn foot) just to get all my emotions dumped out on the floor of some poor unsuspecting nun's office. It felt rather nice to take a break from those sorts of emotions for the week. Everytime I go there, it feels like I'm tearing open old, old, old wounds, that have healed themselves over long ago. Which is essentially, what I really am doing, but these wounds healed over wrongly, I s'pose. Like maybe they healed, but there was something stuck in those wounds that shouldn't have been there all along, but got stuck in there during the healing process. Things I am getting out know. Mother Katherine says it's supposed to get worse before it gets better. I trust her in this, and hope it's all very true.
Snookms booked us and the fam a surprise stay at Holiday Inn's Carribean Cove on Saturday, which was quite pleasant. Probably our best stay there yet. We had one of the shittiest rooms there, and still managed to enjoy ourselves. We were all much more organized this time, having gone the last 3 times and learning from our "mistakes", so it took away from the stress. Mike and I have this ridiculous habit of avoiding intimacy with one another when these "stressful" situations prevail, (and when I say "intimate", I don't mean fucking, I mean like, looking each other in the eyes longingly, stopping and hugging one another in our passing of each other in close quarters, reaching over and petting each other's legs affectionatley while we drive, THAT kind of intimacy) and I made up my mind before we went on our merry way, that I wasn't going to do this, and that I was going to point it out that I was hoping he wouldn't do the avoiding of intimacy thing either. And it really seemed to help. A lot.
I also brought my Women's Devotional bible too, so I could have backup in case my mental psyche went amiss. It didn't, but I still read it anyway, just because it's nice to get a daily dose of spiritual support in this mad, crazy, fucked up, but ever so delightful world. I always go back to that verse in Corinthians, can't remember if it's one or two, but the one about love, and what love is. I also really like to read Romans and Revelations. Lotsa good insight there.
I've been reading "Sex's" blogs alot, and a theme that she seems good at reiterating is rules. No-no's if you will. I am daunted by this ideal, just because I've never been good at following rules. Not that I don't want to follow them, it's just that because of my fucked-up way of taking information in, I don't always get exactly how they are supposed to go, and then the next thing you know I am spelling out the recipe for disaster. With writing, I disregard rules. Like Otep rants in Blood Pig, "Words remain my only escape". And in escaping the harsh reality of this world, I make for myself my own set of rules, especially in writing. My rules are that there is no fucking rules. But, Sex has a point: If you want anyone else to pay any fucking attention to what the hell you're saying, well then, you better saddle the fuck up and get on the rule horse. And I guess, for the most part, I DO indeed want people to pay some sort of attention to what I'm saying, but then again, there are times when I just don't give a fuck anymore and I just start babbling whatever the fuck comes off my fingertips and onto this here keyboard of mine. The next thing I know, I'm looking around, and nobody's even there anymore. I've lost them all at "Hello", so to speak.
But if alone is where I need be, and if no one shall go with the flow of my prickly purple prose, well then, I s'pose this is where I was meant to be all along. I can't keep changing myself for the sake of others. (unless of course I shot you out of my vagina. That, within itself, is a completely different story.)
I like "Sex's" style, it seems void of many rules that I see in other's writing styles, but I don't know if that's just because I've been reading her blog, and not a whole lot of her "actual work", but her rawness is what appeals to me most. I think in today's standard, that is what a lot of potential readers are looking for. A certain rawness of emotions that just grab out at your heart and either make you laugh your fucking ass off, or make you so angry you want to rip the heart outta someone's ass. Not that I care one way or the other if that's what my writing has the impression of doing to others, because I write to get shit off my chest. But she, she's right up there with Augusten Burroughs in my "book" as far as writing goes. I laughed when she said that her mother suggested she write about being a mother. I feel the same fucking way when my mom goes on those rants as well. But you know?...I'd think you'd make a fine way of doing it, "Sex", especially with the way you use your words. It's what I'm in the process of doing. That's what got turned down at Publish America. My being a bi-polar mommy on paper. My autobiographical utterings. I didn't really go into all of it with the intent of making it a published work, but once it was all said and done, the people who had read it highly suggested it, which inflated my ego hulk style, and here I am paying for my rejection a year later. It's the first time I submitted anything to anyone, so I couldn't help but take it personally. I'm a virgin in all of this.
So take my hand "Sex", and show me "the way".... Kidding of course. Maybe I'll get up enough balls to try submitting to someone else, but right now I need to go sit in a corner and lick my wounds for a bit. I don't know if you got to read any of the comments I left you in your archives, but I left one shortly after I wrote "A day in the life of the Turner's humble abode". You had inspired me to write that, with something you wrote in your May of 2008 archive. Something in regards to "ice sculptures", was it not?
So now, I'm thinking about the comment you might leave, if indeed you leave one at all "Sex". It'll probably be something like. "Wow. You wrote a whole blog entry about me. Now I KNOW you're a stalker." Piss off. :D
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Otep - Blood Pig
I would eat this woman alive if I ever saw her. Raw emotions + pretty/angry blonde girl = my wet panties.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A day in the life of The Turner's humble abode....
So six o'clock in the morn' rolls 'round and rears it's ugly head.
"Sugarplump.....Sugarplump. You come lock the door? I'm leavin for work now."
Silence.
"Sugarplump. I'm leaving. Come lock the door".
I roll over and strain my eyes. I see Snookms in all his working glory. My mouth wants to smile at his fortitude, but the body says otherwise. Why the FUCK do I always wake up feeling like I've been out drinking all night, when I haven't touched a drink in ages? But I digress. My brain forces my lifeless carcass out of body and commands itself to follow Snookms to the front door and kiss him goodbye for work and lock up. I hobble through the hallway and past the foyer where he awaits me with lunch in one hand and his nailgun/toolbelt/whatever the fuck else a framer takes with one's self on a daily working basis and I reach for the dead bolt on the front door. Then I undo the chain, then turn off the security alarm, (so as not to awake the rest of the young and the dead in the house) and then pucker up (but not too hard: morning breath; ICK!) and kiss my Snookms goodbye for the day. I watch him walk to his truck and pack it full of framer paraphanalia and then I do up the door the same way I did before, just turning everything the opposite, and head back to bed.
On "special" days, I'll stay up, and take the advantage of the beautiful and quiet summer morning and light up a smoke, preferably menthol, and inhale a few puffs of sweet, secretive, but ever so sinful delight, as my kiddos don't know that I light up on occasion. Snookms knows, but doesn't approve one bit, so I hide my sinful pleasures at my leisure, taking extra care not to smoke/discuss my wordly habit in front of him or the younguns'. Most mornings I'll take tea with my smoke, a perfect way to chase the nauseating taste of nicotine/cigarettes away. I usually head straight for my computer desk, once all the secret smoke rituals have been put into play.
-Kids still asleep? check.
-Snookms not lingering? check.
-Plenty of sugar in the tea? check.
-Something nearby to douse my cigarette out in should the kids decide to wake up? -check.
-Sliding door open? check.
It is then and only then that I can fully immerse myself in one of the last things I have left to call "my own" and feel sheer bliss in the moment of inhaling/exhaling. I breathe in deeply, allowing the smoke inhalation to take my breath away, hoping for one last "head rush". Something left of yore, an old and forgotten dragon to be chased when feeling adventurous enough. But alas, those are back in the olden days of cutting school and dodging the gym teacher back behind B-Wing at South City. Oh how I miss those days.
South San Francisco and it's "noteworthy" school systems had their way with me, and teaching me all the street smarts I would ever need to know. Fuck an education, I had bitchez to throw down with after 2nd period. Where the fuck was College Prep English gonna get my ass then? But thar she blows again, yet another smoke ring of false conceptions, derived all on her own by yours truly. I STILL beat myself over the head for not applying myself more to my photography classes and other such specials I had the pleasure of attending but didn't for the sake of alchohol induced drug orgies and the likes.
FUCK how I hate me sometimes.
So I sit. And reminisce with my morning smoke, knowing full well I'm not getting anywhere and realizing this.
....So I sign in to Myspace, checking for new shit, getting annoyed at the stupid assed mood updates everyone love to put on the ass suck that is Myspace. So and so...."in Jamaica and getting burned", Yet anoter dipshit "lovin' every minute of Washington DC", and then there's my personal favorite: Asshole #7 "is lovin' the beach right now".
"Kiss my crippled ass", as Lieutenant Dan so heartily states in Forrest Gump. They can all go to hell, every last one of em, I state mentally, blowing out yet another smoke ring of dissension. I move on. I check my emails, hoping to God that somehow PublishAmerica has somehow seen the light and sent me a full on apology, stating that they never realized my true potential, and that whomever looked over my submission with such carelessness has been impaled with a large 3-way dildo, and that PublishAmerica Management has personally seen to it that this person be hung by their balls/lips and be demanded of a formal apology to me for all my troubles and heartfelt tears of rejection.
My emails consist only of some fucking chain letter (oh how I want to wipe my ass on those and feed them to the maggots in my garbage can) and more dissapointment on yahoo, telling me how I can finally start up my own small business as a carrot cake vendor. Fucking communists.
I reach for one last star. One last hope, before I decide to call it a morning and go bury my head back into my Batman pillow and call it a morning.
-Blogger-
Ah, yes. Blogger. Good ol' blogger. When all else fails, she never will. (Why is every inanimate object a god-damned she for me? I hate girls.) I laugh, I cry, I shit while I laugh and cry at the occasional pleasantries shared on Blogger. Only cause they are secret. Shared secrets, with a bunch of other Whatchamahoozits, who essentially don't know who the fuck I am. So I could get naked on Blogger for all I care and not give one flying fuck just who sees how saggy and "tribal" my tits have gotten.
Physical nakedness has never been one of my stronger points, but verbal nudity is quite another thing, mi amigo/a.So there I will-a-go, ranting on. About this and that and that and this, and what does to who and where I'd like to slice myself six ways to Sunday before I die a thousand deaths over and over....blahblahfuckingblah.....
I take complete comfort in knowing I can be undressed in this way. I get carried away with my words, far and beyond. I take it a step further and then some. There's even personal insult to injury for good measure. And then I say, with grandiose notion, "I think I'll post this on my Myspace Blog instead!".
To which I reply, after it has all been said and done, "You stupid fecking bitch". Look what you just said about your mother".
And "You really gonna let everyone see that?"
Then "Just hit X and go the fuck back to bed already".
"Al-fucking-right!!", replies my wounded but maniacal ego. "To bed I shall go, fucker".
Jolly and joe do I trundle on to my bed, ready to snuggle nose deep into my Nightmare Before Christmas comforter, kissing Jack the Pumpkin King's adorable face because it reminds me so of my Snookms, all tall, pale and dark persona'd-like. I dream of all the wonderfully/potentially hazardous blog comments that may be in ascension as we speak, (so to speak) and fall into a hazy sleep, drenched with instructional computer tech symbolism and hints of purple cow sex and lots of friend's list invites. People I don't even know, for heaven's sake. But they wanna read me, and that's all that matters. They wanna stop in the middle of shopping for a band saw and a tape measure at Menard's, and they wanna read me. Cause I'm hotter than hot, and everybody who's anybody knows I belong on every god-damned shelf of the free world, not excluding the shelves of Dollar General, proclaiming my existence to the essence of humanity.
I am here!!. Hear me roar!!. (Or read me roar).
3 hours later I awaken to Interpol's Heinrich Manuever playing as the alarm clock ring for my cell phone. I hit snooze the first 40 times and then pride myself for waking up before 12 noon.
But fuck!!
The kids are still asleep.
"Wake them!" my churned brain commands.
So I do.
They look just about as fucked up as I, their eyes begging for one last shot of somthin' or another, just to get the juices flowin'. "How bout a shot of milk and Waffle Crisp sarge? It's on the house!!", I banter away sarcastically.
Carmen shoots me the same look Linda Blair's character shoots Father Merrin from the Exorcist when the power of Christ is compelling her. David's is one of sleep-induced amusement, as he revels in his sister's displeasure, mouth all a-smilin', eyes still closed. The "Jr." is a persona all his own, and will one morning wake up with his foot up his ass and the next be serving me Honey Bunches of Oats in a bowl with some milk and a spoon.
We all scramble to get dressed and packed into the car before 12:30 p.m., to make sure we can still get free lunch at their school, and always make it just before the blessed lunch ladies are ready to shut down for the afternoon. I attempt to conceal any evidence of the "we just fucking woke up" look from our appearance, and just try to act "natural", but I can feel them. Those eyes, those accusing fucking eyes, of the thousands of mothers, burning a hole through my soul, wretching in their capri shorts and baby doll tops, angry and dissapointed that I have fallen to "the dark side of the force". They sit and fester in their Lee Dungaree stews, plotting their next move to make me one of them. And as I sit in earnest waiting for each of my offspring to consume their daily recommended amount of 5 pieces of makeshift chicken nuggets, I can't help but undress them with my eyes, mentally trading in their Mudd brand jeans and their Aeropostle hoodies for a bondage choker and some knee highs.
There's this one asian mom in particular that I always come back to. Never fails. She's the perfect fucking candidate. I tear that olive green colored button up polo off with my teeth, and mentally dress her in my boisteire, and strap that spiked choker on so tight it makes her thighs turn purple for Christ's sake. I throw in a few teachers for good measure. The hotter ones. Not neccessarily the younger ones, because the younger ones aren't always neccessarily the hotter ones. The WISER ones. The curvier ones. The bitchier ones. What they wouldn't do for a visionary night of bondage, my imagination tells me. Not to fuck em. Nothing like that. Just to put them in their fukkin place is all. Damn them and their capris and Nike's and clean smelling children. And their SUV's and their soccer mom bumper stickers. Why must they always be "the better ones"? The "successful ones"? I guess if I wouldnt've kept muh face knee deep in chicks n dicks, I'd have me a taste o' that as well.
But I sit, nonchalantly, and piss the day away, wondering why I even felt such a strong desire to drown my sorrows in a 40 ounce of Old English 800 at the ripe age of 15 in the first god-damned place. I then begin to ponder my folly even further, wondering if indeed this was any of my "fault" in the first place?.....I had issues then. Deepseeded issues that I didn't understand for the life of me, that I still don't quite understand to this day. Things that haunt me, leading me to question their existence.
And then I start to feel it:
Anguish.
The anguish of the masses. Of the thousands upon thousands whom have suffered the same fate as I. And I wonder. That's all I do for the remainder of the day, is wonder. About so many things, and how they COULDA been if this hadn't happened, or if that hadda happened, or in ways out, or out ways in. And I am driven mad by this drivel. It leads me to tears, unchecked, slowly flowing down my forearms like the roots of a tree follow their path to the grounds beneath.
They lead down a single trail, and branch off to other pathways down my body, some tears falling on my Vans, others dripping down my Hello Kitty purse. Most of them just ball up in the pit of the fist I have made, while in my questioned position of angst, and I just let them fall where they may this time.
Fuck Snookms if he sees me.
And fuck the kids too.
I need these tears like Mr. Bean needs an attentive audience, and if I hide them away like I do every god-damned day, well then, here lies yet another day that I am again invisible to the fucking world around me.
As I come to, I realize I am all alone in the house, Snookms having left me to my own devices again, and I, him too. When one is this miserable, it's easy to emotionally abandon ship and make others want to set sail and get the fuck off the boat as well. So he and they left me. They gave up. And I'm alone in the house in the kitchen doorway with a thousand tears leading this way and that, and all I wanna do is call Snookms.
I've got the phone in my hand, my OTHER hand that isn't balled up in a fist of quiet pain and rage. My body is morbidly stiff from trying to blot out all things emotional, and with each word mouthed of "Snookms, can you come back and pick me up please, so I won't be lonely anymore?", I feel another staggeringly painful deathblow to the senses:
Hope.
Too much hope is a terrible thing for me, but it's all I can do to hold on in this moment. My survival instincts kick on, and my brain is obeying all kinds of commands that my heart is unable to make. I stand back, astonished at this new feat that my body can pull off. My emotions stand beside my body and literally WATCH as it takes over me, pushing "talk" on the phone,dialing the appropriate "Snookms to the rescue" numbers, and mouthing the words "Yes", as Snookms asks if I want him to come back and pick me up.
My emotions fail me this time though, and they collapse into themselves and join with the rest of my body as more tears travel down the many paths it has made for itself. I stand there and curl up in a ball, trying to recollect some of what went on, what led me to this point in the first place. I remember vividly Snookms wanting to get out of the house, but where did the rest of the story go? I was at school, with the kids, getting free lunches, remember? How did it get to all this? It's Sunday now. Friday was the last day for school lunch. How did I get here, from point "A" all the way to point "F"?
None of that is answered as I hear the dead bolt on the front door undo, and Snookms comes to the rescue, with his strong but gentle arms to hold me in check as I crumple to the floor once again.
But this time, he holds me up.
This time, he doesn't let me fall.
He kisses me with those soft full lips of his, a gentle, fuck-free kiss, that tells me he doesn't want ANYTHING from me. Nothing but the pleasure of my company. And with that, I get in the car. We drive. The kids, I hear laughing in the back seat. I hear myself laughing. We are one again. We are a family.
We go to the park.
We get ice cream.
We shop at K-mart, and buy things, and cook out.
We don't live happily ever after, but we live day to day and get through each moment as it passes and maybe hope there's another day like it somewhere out there in space and time and free love and all that jazz.....
But for now, here's some pictures:
Pictures of what my kids do best; them at their "finest", if you will....
This is Mike, doing what he does best, building intricate train tracks for his many many many many Tomy Thomas The Tank Engine trains that he has collected over the years. (Damn those autistics and their intense interests and love for trains) You GOTTA love 'em.....
And then of course, here we have David, in all his tech geek glory: He's a potential computer whiz, whipping up yet another video on Youtube, of either how to build an efficient Lego Go Kart, or singing along to the lyrics of Dragonforce's "Through the Fire and Flames", or just plain ol' youtubing, finding the ridiculously ridiculous shit that kids manage to find on youtube. Like, for instance, youtube poop: the mask of gay Luigi. Type that bitch on the search engine. I fuckin dare ya....see what your ass finds.
Last but not least, my mini-me, my other half that's not a Snookms, in all her turtle glory. She's the spittin image of me when I was her age, aside from her dad's personality raging within. The cruel turtle-age of Carmen. I call her Cha-Cha, don't know why, it just SOUNDS right damnit. We so need to start a shelter for the homeless turtles of today's youth.
One last one: (just couldn't find the resistance)
The Snookms in all his working glory:
(Being silly, of courseness, work could NEVER be this much fun OR gorgeousness)
"Sugarplump.....Sugarplump. You come lock the door? I'm leavin for work now."
Silence.
"Sugarplump. I'm leaving. Come lock the door".
I roll over and strain my eyes. I see Snookms in all his working glory. My mouth wants to smile at his fortitude, but the body says otherwise. Why the FUCK do I always wake up feeling like I've been out drinking all night, when I haven't touched a drink in ages? But I digress. My brain forces my lifeless carcass out of body and commands itself to follow Snookms to the front door and kiss him goodbye for work and lock up. I hobble through the hallway and past the foyer where he awaits me with lunch in one hand and his nailgun/toolbelt/whatever the fuck else a framer takes with one's self on a daily working basis and I reach for the dead bolt on the front door. Then I undo the chain, then turn off the security alarm, (so as not to awake the rest of the young and the dead in the house) and then pucker up (but not too hard: morning breath; ICK!) and kiss my Snookms goodbye for the day. I watch him walk to his truck and pack it full of framer paraphanalia and then I do up the door the same way I did before, just turning everything the opposite, and head back to bed.
On "special" days, I'll stay up, and take the advantage of the beautiful and quiet summer morning and light up a smoke, preferably menthol, and inhale a few puffs of sweet, secretive, but ever so sinful delight, as my kiddos don't know that I light up on occasion. Snookms knows, but doesn't approve one bit, so I hide my sinful pleasures at my leisure, taking extra care not to smoke/discuss my wordly habit in front of him or the younguns'. Most mornings I'll take tea with my smoke, a perfect way to chase the nauseating taste of nicotine/cigarettes away. I usually head straight for my computer desk, once all the secret smoke rituals have been put into play.
-Kids still asleep? check.
-Snookms not lingering? check.
-Plenty of sugar in the tea? check.
-Something nearby to douse my cigarette out in should the kids decide to wake up? -check.
-Sliding door open? check.
It is then and only then that I can fully immerse myself in one of the last things I have left to call "my own" and feel sheer bliss in the moment of inhaling/exhaling. I breathe in deeply, allowing the smoke inhalation to take my breath away, hoping for one last "head rush". Something left of yore, an old and forgotten dragon to be chased when feeling adventurous enough. But alas, those are back in the olden days of cutting school and dodging the gym teacher back behind B-Wing at South City. Oh how I miss those days.
South San Francisco and it's "noteworthy" school systems had their way with me, and teaching me all the street smarts I would ever need to know. Fuck an education, I had bitchez to throw down with after 2nd period. Where the fuck was College Prep English gonna get my ass then? But thar she blows again, yet another smoke ring of false conceptions, derived all on her own by yours truly. I STILL beat myself over the head for not applying myself more to my photography classes and other such specials I had the pleasure of attending but didn't for the sake of alchohol induced drug orgies and the likes.
FUCK how I hate me sometimes.
So I sit. And reminisce with my morning smoke, knowing full well I'm not getting anywhere and realizing this.
....So I sign in to Myspace, checking for new shit, getting annoyed at the stupid assed mood updates everyone love to put on the ass suck that is Myspace. So and so...."in Jamaica and getting burned", Yet anoter dipshit "lovin' every minute of Washington DC", and then there's my personal favorite: Asshole #7 "is lovin' the beach right now".
"Kiss my crippled ass", as Lieutenant Dan so heartily states in Forrest Gump. They can all go to hell, every last one of em, I state mentally, blowing out yet another smoke ring of dissension. I move on. I check my emails, hoping to God that somehow PublishAmerica has somehow seen the light and sent me a full on apology, stating that they never realized my true potential, and that whomever looked over my submission with such carelessness has been impaled with a large 3-way dildo, and that PublishAmerica Management has personally seen to it that this person be hung by their balls/lips and be demanded of a formal apology to me for all my troubles and heartfelt tears of rejection.
My emails consist only of some fucking chain letter (oh how I want to wipe my ass on those and feed them to the maggots in my garbage can) and more dissapointment on yahoo, telling me how I can finally start up my own small business as a carrot cake vendor. Fucking communists.
I reach for one last star. One last hope, before I decide to call it a morning and go bury my head back into my Batman pillow and call it a morning.
-Blogger-
Ah, yes. Blogger. Good ol' blogger. When all else fails, she never will. (Why is every inanimate object a god-damned she for me? I hate girls.) I laugh, I cry, I shit while I laugh and cry at the occasional pleasantries shared on Blogger. Only cause they are secret. Shared secrets, with a bunch of other Whatchamahoozits, who essentially don't know who the fuck I am. So I could get naked on Blogger for all I care and not give one flying fuck just who sees how saggy and "tribal" my tits have gotten.
Physical nakedness has never been one of my stronger points, but verbal nudity is quite another thing, mi amigo/a.So there I will-a-go, ranting on. About this and that and that and this, and what does to who and where I'd like to slice myself six ways to Sunday before I die a thousand deaths over and over....blahblahfuckingblah.....
I take complete comfort in knowing I can be undressed in this way. I get carried away with my words, far and beyond. I take it a step further and then some. There's even personal insult to injury for good measure. And then I say, with grandiose notion, "I think I'll post this on my Myspace Blog instead!".
To which I reply, after it has all been said and done, "You stupid fecking bitch". Look what you just said about your mother".
And "You really gonna let everyone see that?"
Then "Just hit X and go the fuck back to bed already".
"Al-fucking-right!!", replies my wounded but maniacal ego. "To bed I shall go, fucker".
Jolly and joe do I trundle on to my bed, ready to snuggle nose deep into my Nightmare Before Christmas comforter, kissing Jack the Pumpkin King's adorable face because it reminds me so of my Snookms, all tall, pale and dark persona'd-like. I dream of all the wonderfully/potentially hazardous blog comments that may be in ascension as we speak, (so to speak) and fall into a hazy sleep, drenched with instructional computer tech symbolism and hints of purple cow sex and lots of friend's list invites. People I don't even know, for heaven's sake. But they wanna read me, and that's all that matters. They wanna stop in the middle of shopping for a band saw and a tape measure at Menard's, and they wanna read me. Cause I'm hotter than hot, and everybody who's anybody knows I belong on every god-damned shelf of the free world, not excluding the shelves of Dollar General, proclaiming my existence to the essence of humanity.
I am here!!. Hear me roar!!. (Or read me roar).
3 hours later I awaken to Interpol's Heinrich Manuever playing as the alarm clock ring for my cell phone. I hit snooze the first 40 times and then pride myself for waking up before 12 noon.
But fuck!!
The kids are still asleep.
"Wake them!" my churned brain commands.
So I do.
They look just about as fucked up as I, their eyes begging for one last shot of somthin' or another, just to get the juices flowin'. "How bout a shot of milk and Waffle Crisp sarge? It's on the house!!", I banter away sarcastically.
Carmen shoots me the same look Linda Blair's character shoots Father Merrin from the Exorcist when the power of Christ is compelling her. David's is one of sleep-induced amusement, as he revels in his sister's displeasure, mouth all a-smilin', eyes still closed. The "Jr." is a persona all his own, and will one morning wake up with his foot up his ass and the next be serving me Honey Bunches of Oats in a bowl with some milk and a spoon.
We all scramble to get dressed and packed into the car before 12:30 p.m., to make sure we can still get free lunch at their school, and always make it just before the blessed lunch ladies are ready to shut down for the afternoon. I attempt to conceal any evidence of the "we just fucking woke up" look from our appearance, and just try to act "natural", but I can feel them. Those eyes, those accusing fucking eyes, of the thousands of mothers, burning a hole through my soul, wretching in their capri shorts and baby doll tops, angry and dissapointed that I have fallen to "the dark side of the force". They sit and fester in their Lee Dungaree stews, plotting their next move to make me one of them. And as I sit in earnest waiting for each of my offspring to consume their daily recommended amount of 5 pieces of makeshift chicken nuggets, I can't help but undress them with my eyes, mentally trading in their Mudd brand jeans and their Aeropostle hoodies for a bondage choker and some knee highs.
There's this one asian mom in particular that I always come back to. Never fails. She's the perfect fucking candidate. I tear that olive green colored button up polo off with my teeth, and mentally dress her in my boisteire, and strap that spiked choker on so tight it makes her thighs turn purple for Christ's sake. I throw in a few teachers for good measure. The hotter ones. Not neccessarily the younger ones, because the younger ones aren't always neccessarily the hotter ones. The WISER ones. The curvier ones. The bitchier ones. What they wouldn't do for a visionary night of bondage, my imagination tells me. Not to fuck em. Nothing like that. Just to put them in their fukkin place is all. Damn them and their capris and Nike's and clean smelling children. And their SUV's and their soccer mom bumper stickers. Why must they always be "the better ones"? The "successful ones"? I guess if I wouldnt've kept muh face knee deep in chicks n dicks, I'd have me a taste o' that as well.
But I sit, nonchalantly, and piss the day away, wondering why I even felt such a strong desire to drown my sorrows in a 40 ounce of Old English 800 at the ripe age of 15 in the first god-damned place. I then begin to ponder my folly even further, wondering if indeed this was any of my "fault" in the first place?.....I had issues then. Deepseeded issues that I didn't understand for the life of me, that I still don't quite understand to this day. Things that haunt me, leading me to question their existence.
And then I start to feel it:
Anguish.
The anguish of the masses. Of the thousands upon thousands whom have suffered the same fate as I. And I wonder. That's all I do for the remainder of the day, is wonder. About so many things, and how they COULDA been if this hadn't happened, or if that hadda happened, or in ways out, or out ways in. And I am driven mad by this drivel. It leads me to tears, unchecked, slowly flowing down my forearms like the roots of a tree follow their path to the grounds beneath.
They lead down a single trail, and branch off to other pathways down my body, some tears falling on my Vans, others dripping down my Hello Kitty purse. Most of them just ball up in the pit of the fist I have made, while in my questioned position of angst, and I just let them fall where they may this time.
Fuck Snookms if he sees me.
And fuck the kids too.
I need these tears like Mr. Bean needs an attentive audience, and if I hide them away like I do every god-damned day, well then, here lies yet another day that I am again invisible to the fucking world around me.
As I come to, I realize I am all alone in the house, Snookms having left me to my own devices again, and I, him too. When one is this miserable, it's easy to emotionally abandon ship and make others want to set sail and get the fuck off the boat as well. So he and they left me. They gave up. And I'm alone in the house in the kitchen doorway with a thousand tears leading this way and that, and all I wanna do is call Snookms.
I've got the phone in my hand, my OTHER hand that isn't balled up in a fist of quiet pain and rage. My body is morbidly stiff from trying to blot out all things emotional, and with each word mouthed of "Snookms, can you come back and pick me up please, so I won't be lonely anymore?", I feel another staggeringly painful deathblow to the senses:
Hope.
Too much hope is a terrible thing for me, but it's all I can do to hold on in this moment. My survival instincts kick on, and my brain is obeying all kinds of commands that my heart is unable to make. I stand back, astonished at this new feat that my body can pull off. My emotions stand beside my body and literally WATCH as it takes over me, pushing "talk" on the phone,dialing the appropriate "Snookms to the rescue" numbers, and mouthing the words "Yes", as Snookms asks if I want him to come back and pick me up.
My emotions fail me this time though, and they collapse into themselves and join with the rest of my body as more tears travel down the many paths it has made for itself. I stand there and curl up in a ball, trying to recollect some of what went on, what led me to this point in the first place. I remember vividly Snookms wanting to get out of the house, but where did the rest of the story go? I was at school, with the kids, getting free lunches, remember? How did it get to all this? It's Sunday now. Friday was the last day for school lunch. How did I get here, from point "A" all the way to point "F"?
None of that is answered as I hear the dead bolt on the front door undo, and Snookms comes to the rescue, with his strong but gentle arms to hold me in check as I crumple to the floor once again.
But this time, he holds me up.
This time, he doesn't let me fall.
He kisses me with those soft full lips of his, a gentle, fuck-free kiss, that tells me he doesn't want ANYTHING from me. Nothing but the pleasure of my company. And with that, I get in the car. We drive. The kids, I hear laughing in the back seat. I hear myself laughing. We are one again. We are a family.
We go to the park.
We get ice cream.
We shop at K-mart, and buy things, and cook out.
We don't live happily ever after, but we live day to day and get through each moment as it passes and maybe hope there's another day like it somewhere out there in space and time and free love and all that jazz.....
But for now, here's some pictures:
Pictures of what my kids do best; them at their "finest", if you will....
This is Mike, doing what he does best, building intricate train tracks for his many many many many Tomy Thomas The Tank Engine trains that he has collected over the years. (Damn those autistics and their intense interests and love for trains) You GOTTA love 'em.....
And then of course, here we have David, in all his tech geek glory: He's a potential computer whiz, whipping up yet another video on Youtube, of either how to build an efficient Lego Go Kart, or singing along to the lyrics of Dragonforce's "Through the Fire and Flames", or just plain ol' youtubing, finding the ridiculously ridiculous shit that kids manage to find on youtube. Like, for instance, youtube poop: the mask of gay Luigi. Type that bitch on the search engine. I fuckin dare ya....see what your ass finds.
Last but not least, my mini-me, my other half that's not a Snookms, in all her turtle glory. She's the spittin image of me when I was her age, aside from her dad's personality raging within. The cruel turtle-age of Carmen. I call her Cha-Cha, don't know why, it just SOUNDS right damnit. We so need to start a shelter for the homeless turtles of today's youth.
One last one: (just couldn't find the resistance)
The Snookms in all his working glory:
(Being silly, of courseness, work could NEVER be this much fun OR gorgeousness)
Thursday, July 10, 2008
"Something wicked this way comes".....
I can feel it. Brewing within me. Like a fowl and festering witch's concoction....
~Make way for PMS~
I am only safe from it's clutches 2 out of 4 weeks of the month. The remainder of my fortnights are plagued with insatiable school girl giggles, and quickly replaced with suicidal lows that would make your fecking GRANDFATHER curl up in a ball and cry themself (I don't even think that's a word:themself) to sleep.
The heirchy for today? A bowl of mushroom flavored pasta with dried up mushrooms for added texture, and a peanut butter and jelly sammich. Yep. That's fucking it.
Mike got home from work smelling like a steam piled piece of wood, and left with the fucking QUICKNESS when invited to his buddy's to play a "champion's game of HORSE". So fuck him and the HORSE he rode out on. He's probably SICK TO DEATH of seeing me play Guitar Hero 3 everytime he gets home, but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, when he gets home, that's usually the time that I FINALLY have a chance to sit down and relax and do what the fuck I wanna do, instead of following around after shitheads all day washing/drying/folding laundry, cleaning bathrooms, bedrooms, dustbunnies, dishes and buttholes. So what the FUCK is it to him if I wanna play Tenacious D's "The Metal" on medium and make his sorry ass so jealous that HE can't get a 99% acuracy with a 454 note streak?
I should take my maxi pad off and rub it all over his face while he's asleep, you know it?
......and to top all this off, I turn the game off (after playing for a whopping forty-five minutes) just to find the house a mess again because he has a tendency to "shed" his working skin whenever he gets home from work. So when he gets home from his little game, I'm going to leave a "trail" all my own....
Yes....
A "trail" of used maxi pads leading from the front door all the way to the back bedroom that we share each night. The pads will cleverly lead to something under the covers.
Something evil.
Something lurking.
And when he lifts those said covers, out shall I pop, with carnaged maxi pad in hand, to smother him in the death he dealt to me so quickly all these years.
.....I'll not let him see this published post.
~Make way for PMS~
I am only safe from it's clutches 2 out of 4 weeks of the month. The remainder of my fortnights are plagued with insatiable school girl giggles, and quickly replaced with suicidal lows that would make your fecking GRANDFATHER curl up in a ball and cry themself (I don't even think that's a word:themself) to sleep.
The heirchy for today? A bowl of mushroom flavored pasta with dried up mushrooms for added texture, and a peanut butter and jelly sammich. Yep. That's fucking it.
Mike got home from work smelling like a steam piled piece of wood, and left with the fucking QUICKNESS when invited to his buddy's to play a "champion's game of HORSE". So fuck him and the HORSE he rode out on. He's probably SICK TO DEATH of seeing me play Guitar Hero 3 everytime he gets home, but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, when he gets home, that's usually the time that I FINALLY have a chance to sit down and relax and do what the fuck I wanna do, instead of following around after shitheads all day washing/drying/folding laundry, cleaning bathrooms, bedrooms, dustbunnies, dishes and buttholes. So what the FUCK is it to him if I wanna play Tenacious D's "The Metal" on medium and make his sorry ass so jealous that HE can't get a 99% acuracy with a 454 note streak?
I should take my maxi pad off and rub it all over his face while he's asleep, you know it?
......and to top all this off, I turn the game off (after playing for a whopping forty-five minutes) just to find the house a mess again because he has a tendency to "shed" his working skin whenever he gets home from work. So when he gets home from his little game, I'm going to leave a "trail" all my own....
Yes....
A "trail" of used maxi pads leading from the front door all the way to the back bedroom that we share each night. The pads will cleverly lead to something under the covers.
Something evil.
Something lurking.
And when he lifts those said covers, out shall I pop, with carnaged maxi pad in hand, to smother him in the death he dealt to me so quickly all these years.
.....I'll not let him see this published post.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Dark Realm..........
It's how I feel in my blackened hour. I wrote this over 3 years ago, and yet something still reaches inside me and crushes my heart everytime I read it. I don't cringe in disgust when I happen across this one yet, so perhaps it's a keeper?
I had written this "piece" with a particular half breed vampire in mind. Battling with the "holiness" of his elven blood coursing through his veins, but alas, still won't to give in to those lustly vampiric ways. I, of course, was living vicariously though my poems those days as well. :)
In deep withstanding I do behold,
the power to succumb as the mystery unfolds
the twilight's darkness,
which summons thy night, and beckons the moon to bring forth it's light.
In it's waxing and waning, I do foretell,
the shadows cast for the 'marrow, and fears do swell.
For in vain do I ponder the realm of it's deep,
in waking and slumber, it's thoughts I do keep.
Ever in the darkness do I search for my soul,
and the light to it's path do I wish to unfold!
In darkness, in chaos, it's perilous form...
is naught in the day, it's beauties do swarm.
I chase the light yet my soul wretches the day,
my blood lusts for the darkness
yet in night do I pray...
I pray for the light, my soul to keep
and never to awaken those souls once reaped
I had written this "piece" with a particular half breed vampire in mind. Battling with the "holiness" of his elven blood coursing through his veins, but alas, still won't to give in to those lustly vampiric ways. I, of course, was living vicariously though my poems those days as well. :)
In deep withstanding I do behold,
the power to succumb as the mystery unfolds
the twilight's darkness,
which summons thy night, and beckons the moon to bring forth it's light.
In it's waxing and waning, I do foretell,
the shadows cast for the 'marrow, and fears do swell.
For in vain do I ponder the realm of it's deep,
in waking and slumber, it's thoughts I do keep.
Ever in the darkness do I search for my soul,
and the light to it's path do I wish to unfold!
In darkness, in chaos, it's perilous form...
is naught in the day, it's beauties do swarm.
I chase the light yet my soul wretches the day,
my blood lusts for the darkness
yet in night do I pray...
I pray for the light, my soul to keep
and never to awaken those souls once reaped
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Pretty fucking awful....
Yep. It's pretty fucking bad when a self publishing book company rejects your ass. Publish America says that "This work does not currently fit our requirements. Please do not take this a setback to all your hard work as a writer. We are sure you will find a publisher to fit your needs."
And then of course:.....
"We wish you the best of luck".
Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.
Sheezus. I guess I'll just have to take my attempts at an unconventional autobiography ELSEWHERE!!! *stamps away angrily onto a set of stairs that lead to nothingness*
And then of course:.....
"We wish you the best of luck".
Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.
Sheezus. I guess I'll just have to take my attempts at an unconventional autobiography ELSEWHERE!!! *stamps away angrily onto a set of stairs that lead to nothingness*
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
"Another GIANT step away from virginity"......
It's early and I feel sick. S'POSed to be going to the zoo today with my eldest's friend and his aunt. At this "juncture in my career" I am just not feeling it this morning. Maybe I'll feel better an hour from now. I hope so.
There's no going back at this point. When I spoke to Alex's aunt last night, she said he was very much looking forward to today. I can't let the poor little bugger down, he's already had enough of life stabbing him in the back.....
When the guy was 3, his dad died from a tumor in his head. He's also autistic (a little more severe than my own son's in some areas but not in others) and ADD, and his mom lost a battle with cancer earlier this year.....2 days before Mother's Day to be exact. His mother's funeral was the day after his birthday, the viewing was ON his birthday, for crying out loud. Not to sound insensitive, but somehow I think his autism helps him filter through this stage of his life. He probably would have had some sort of breakdown if it were any other way.
So the thought of canceling out on this trip today is completely out of the question. I just hope it's not so hot that I can feel my twat sweating while we make this journey. And I hope my kids don't complain the whole time. They usually don't. Actually, they are pretty much troopers when it comes to shit like this, but sometimes, outta nowhere, their endurance will have seemed to wane, and they just want to get the fuck out of dodge at a moment's notice. Those are the times when I can't deal and I fold. Oh what I wouldn't do for some mind altering substances on days like this. I really should be on meds, fer cryin' out loud.
My nun therapist is supporting my desire to go this bi-polaric journey alone, without the waterwings of medicine to help me stay afloat, but she doesn't cease to occasionally mention the use of herbal supplements. (NO!! Not THOSE kinds, you GONADS!) She has suggested the use of St. John's Wort and Omega 3 Fatty Acids, and eating lotsa nuts. I WISH she'd just pass me a joint. But she's a fuckin nun for Christ's sake. A six foot tall, african american nun, whom is Greek Orthodox, which, according to her, is the earliest form of Christian Worship.
I really dig my nun therapist though. I was intimidated like mad when I first met up with her, years ago, but our unification has proven quite fruitful over the years. And I can talk to her about ANYTHING. Yes, anything. Including dreams where I have orgies with her in the middle of the porn section of Family Video, and she is fondling my rack with her teeth.
I have an appt. with her tonight, and at this point, I am finally starting to trust her enough to tell her the truth about my life. About my past, my childhood, my present, my ability to physically abuse myself, with the comfort of knowing she isn't going to have me locked away at the nearest state boobie hatch. Although I've wondered if it could be a great place for a private vacation get away from time to time......Alas, I don't think I could handle the lonliness those types of environments generate. The last one I was at for hurting myself I only lasted 3 days. I had to get gone ASAP.
But here I am, learning to deal, learning to heal. Getting Anger Management out of this as well, and learning a thing or 3 along the way. Like, that it's actually okay to get mad. That's the LAST thing you ever think you are going to take away with you when attending Anger Management. But it's true. I guess the longer you hold in the fact that you wanna rip the heart out of some dipshit's ass, the worse it is for a person. Not that ass ripping of the hearts is okay by any means, but I learned that if you wait too long, that shit just festers inside like the Bubonic Plague, and it's better to go let that person/animal/closet door know JUST how you feel, straightaway. What a shocker that was for me. A shocker, and a relief. Hard to do though, y'know? After 30 years of learning to supress all that shit, it isn't easy to just "let it all hang out". It's a dance perfected over time, learning to supress your anger so that it explodes like a nuclear bomb on the next guy who just wanted a little extra ice in their coke at Mickey D's. But I guess farting in customer's cups to exact due revenge isn't the answer to life's "What if's".....
I learn new things ev'ryday, yah?
Now I must depart. I have clothes I must squeeze into, dead to awaken, picnics to pack, and monkeys to return the flinging of poo too. Those fuckers get away with murder in the zoo.
There's no going back at this point. When I spoke to Alex's aunt last night, she said he was very much looking forward to today. I can't let the poor little bugger down, he's already had enough of life stabbing him in the back.....
When the guy was 3, his dad died from a tumor in his head. He's also autistic (a little more severe than my own son's in some areas but not in others) and ADD, and his mom lost a battle with cancer earlier this year.....2 days before Mother's Day to be exact. His mother's funeral was the day after his birthday, the viewing was ON his birthday, for crying out loud. Not to sound insensitive, but somehow I think his autism helps him filter through this stage of his life. He probably would have had some sort of breakdown if it were any other way.
So the thought of canceling out on this trip today is completely out of the question. I just hope it's not so hot that I can feel my twat sweating while we make this journey. And I hope my kids don't complain the whole time. They usually don't. Actually, they are pretty much troopers when it comes to shit like this, but sometimes, outta nowhere, their endurance will have seemed to wane, and they just want to get the fuck out of dodge at a moment's notice. Those are the times when I can't deal and I fold. Oh what I wouldn't do for some mind altering substances on days like this. I really should be on meds, fer cryin' out loud.
My nun therapist is supporting my desire to go this bi-polaric journey alone, without the waterwings of medicine to help me stay afloat, but she doesn't cease to occasionally mention the use of herbal supplements. (NO!! Not THOSE kinds, you GONADS!) She has suggested the use of St. John's Wort and Omega 3 Fatty Acids, and eating lotsa nuts. I WISH she'd just pass me a joint. But she's a fuckin nun for Christ's sake. A six foot tall, african american nun, whom is Greek Orthodox, which, according to her, is the earliest form of Christian Worship.
I really dig my nun therapist though. I was intimidated like mad when I first met up with her, years ago, but our unification has proven quite fruitful over the years. And I can talk to her about ANYTHING. Yes, anything. Including dreams where I have orgies with her in the middle of the porn section of Family Video, and she is fondling my rack with her teeth.
I have an appt. with her tonight, and at this point, I am finally starting to trust her enough to tell her the truth about my life. About my past, my childhood, my present, my ability to physically abuse myself, with the comfort of knowing she isn't going to have me locked away at the nearest state boobie hatch. Although I've wondered if it could be a great place for a private vacation get away from time to time......Alas, I don't think I could handle the lonliness those types of environments generate. The last one I was at for hurting myself I only lasted 3 days. I had to get gone ASAP.
But here I am, learning to deal, learning to heal. Getting Anger Management out of this as well, and learning a thing or 3 along the way. Like, that it's actually okay to get mad. That's the LAST thing you ever think you are going to take away with you when attending Anger Management. But it's true. I guess the longer you hold in the fact that you wanna rip the heart out of some dipshit's ass, the worse it is for a person. Not that ass ripping of the hearts is okay by any means, but I learned that if you wait too long, that shit just festers inside like the Bubonic Plague, and it's better to go let that person/animal/closet door know JUST how you feel, straightaway. What a shocker that was for me. A shocker, and a relief. Hard to do though, y'know? After 30 years of learning to supress all that shit, it isn't easy to just "let it all hang out". It's a dance perfected over time, learning to supress your anger so that it explodes like a nuclear bomb on the next guy who just wanted a little extra ice in their coke at Mickey D's. But I guess farting in customer's cups to exact due revenge isn't the answer to life's "What if's".....
I learn new things ev'ryday, yah?
Now I must depart. I have clothes I must squeeze into, dead to awaken, picnics to pack, and monkeys to return the flinging of poo too. Those fuckers get away with murder in the zoo.
Finally!! A freaking comment box that works!
Thanks to the "sexscenesatstarbucks" chick, I now have a nifty comment box. Woot woot.
Now "no one" can comment my boring assed bloggedry. Tootles.
Now "no one" can comment my boring assed bloggedry. Tootles.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
"Getting ready"
It's 11:45 am, and I've only been up for an hour an a half. Supposed to go meet the hubby up at Fisherman's Village Apartments for some lunchtime action. Only a 5 minute drive away. I look forward to meeting and seeing him in all his working glory, but at the same time I cringe at the thought of trying to get the humble abode in order in 20 minutes flat....especially when I still haven't recovered from that icky/hungover groggy feeling that one usually gets when they first wake up. I loathe brushing my daughter's Rapunzel length hair when under these conditions. It's comparable to trying to waitress while drunk. Rude, ungrateful people, criticizing your every effort, while you try unabatedly to stand up straight and tell everyone to "Shut the fuck up and piss off". I hate the "employed" ideal. There are days that I thank the Lord almighty up above that I am a stay at home mom, believe it or not. I also throw in a quick "sacrifice of praise" for being sober and clean these days too. I don't know where I'd be if I didn't ever learn to put down the 40 and pay the fuck attention to what people were saying.
So you see, I like my new blogger layout, but I don't know how to enable comments with this new format, which isn't really too big a deal, considering I've gotten a total of 1(one)yep...ONE!!) fucking comment the whole 2 - 3 years I've been on this thing. Sorta my fault though, I was pretty private in going into all of this, and didn't post SHITE for like a year straight. When I DID finally start posting, I received an anonymous comment, which did wonders for my self esteem, and even more for my desire to continue writing. But alas, I'm not here to fish for compliments, it was more meant for an outlet for my squabblish writing, when I didn't have the ballz to post what I was REALLY feeling on my Myspace blog. I have a small handful of people that read my juh-nk there, and I thought this would be a good escape route for all the steam I need to let out every once in a while. Not a soul knows about this "secret blog", except muh nun of a therapist, and me. (and the people who might possibly cruise through here unknowingly. Nobody I know personally, that's fo' sho')
But I like having this....It feels safe.
So if anyone DOES saunter through these dreary halls, I can take complete comfort in knowing that I don't know who the fuck you are, and essentially, neither do you know who the fuck I am. It's symbiotic, you see????
So you see, I like my new blogger layout, but I don't know how to enable comments with this new format, which isn't really too big a deal, considering I've gotten a total of 1(one)yep...ONE!!) fucking comment the whole 2 - 3 years I've been on this thing. Sorta my fault though, I was pretty private in going into all of this, and didn't post SHITE for like a year straight. When I DID finally start posting, I received an anonymous comment, which did wonders for my self esteem, and even more for my desire to continue writing. But alas, I'm not here to fish for compliments, it was more meant for an outlet for my squabblish writing, when I didn't have the ballz to post what I was REALLY feeling on my Myspace blog. I have a small handful of people that read my juh-nk there, and I thought this would be a good escape route for all the steam I need to let out every once in a while. Not a soul knows about this "secret blog", except muh nun of a therapist, and me. (and the people who might possibly cruise through here unknowingly. Nobody I know personally, that's fo' sho')
But I like having this....It feels safe.
So if anyone DOES saunter through these dreary halls, I can take complete comfort in knowing that I don't know who the fuck you are, and essentially, neither do you know who the fuck I am. It's symbiotic, you see????
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