No One Addresses the Pope as Frankie

Being Bipolar can be so weird and frustrating.

On the upside, when I'm on a creative roll nothing can stop me. Not the endless chatter or pleas from my 8 year old nor the prospect of watching an independent movie staring my favorite actor while sipping on a hard cider. 

The downside comes when my brain won't turn off and let me go to sleep. My eyes are sore, achy, and dry. My wrists have feel spikey and my butt has become one with the kitchen chair. I've taken to writing in a yellow spiral-bound mini notebook, words spilling out of my head, and pages rapidly filling up.  

I desperately want to sleep but fear that if I put down my pen in favor of slumber I'll lose the muse.

I have the plot story-boarded across my bedroom wall, so I realized the other day that I could write chapters independent of each other. While soaking in the tub or as I like to call it the "Writer's-Block-Away-inator" I came up with the name and back-story for an integral character.

So for a exerpt into Chapter (Number TBD) "No One Addresses the Pope as Frankie"

    I woke up days later. Or was it hours? I tried to piece together what had happened. It turns out when you come into a hospital unconscious with a head injury standard protocol demands that all clothing is cut off ensuring your last shred of dignity won’t stand in the way of all the diagnostic tests to be run. Sticky monitoring pads are Krazy-glued to your chest, neck, and scalp while various tubes are inserted to either pull out or push in fluids.
   I appeared to be in a private room. The shades were drawn but a dull light filtered under the door. A toilet flushed and the running tap suggested that someone was in a bathroom connected to this room.
    The light extinguished and the door swung outwards slowly. This person was taking great pains to be discreet, but the shrill squeal of the hinges gave it away.
    “I’m so sorry. I’ve woken you.”
    “No. . .it’s. . .it’s. Wait, am I dead?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    I looked at the man standing next to me. His voice was like warm butter, sliding across the top of a fresh baked biscuit. Stubborn auburn curls tumbled across his forehead. He attempted to tuck a stray ringlet behind his ear, but it bounced free like a naughty child escaping the confines of a smothering hug.
    His eyes. Those eyes alone I could talk about for hours. Magazine articles said that his eyes were slate blue. In TV interviews his eyes seemed to be green. But as I stared up at him, I realized his eyes were like the color an angry sea. I thought about the summer afternoons I would watch the afternoon showers roll in across the Gulf of Mexico. As the waves churned and pounded the sea wall, I could see colors of grayed sand, purple bruised waves, silvery minnows, and green mermaid foam.
    What?
    What the what?

Just a Baby Step

My mind is gray and empty.  I'm so frustrated with it.  I want to laugh or smile and have pleasant conversations, but it's so exhausting.  I want to work on my book, but I can't put the words down.  Thoughts that that flowed from my imagination down my fingers at the start of January, are now locked behind a trasnparent door.

I can hear the sarcasm laden dialogue, picture the perfect modifiers that convey Norma Jeanne's anger, and almost touch the pretty prepositions that would couple up next to Gams fat English bulldog.

But they won't come out and play with me.  Until I can get the key, in the shape of a horse-sized bitter pill, all I do is sit and stare at the empty word document.  And check on Facebook to see which people have updated their status in the last three minutes.  And stare at the screen, while the pointer mockingly blinks at me.  And check Pintrest because there might be a new picture to see in the last five minutes since I was on there.  And then back to the empty screen.

A lot of artistic friends I have - writers, artists, musicians, - who suffer from forms of depression/anxiety/mania, don't like to be on medication b/c they feel it stifles their ability to create.  And up until 3 weeks ago, I wondered if that was the case with me.  Would I discover more creative freedom if I didn't have my meds swimming in my blood stream?  Was there another side of me that could improve on what I am doing now?

Michael Scott will tell you the answer is a resounding 



As many years as I have been ashamed with myself for being dependent on my drugs, I guess that maybe this situation has now I helped me achieve some peace.  Quite plainly, I can't function without my meds.  I become a very depressive person.  My ability to see beauty in the mundane, to find the story of the person with a past in the eyes of a homeless beggar, to see the humor in the instances where fear or tears would be an understandable response is all gone.  I lack sympathy. 

For you worried about The Kiddo, I'm fortunate that in these past few weeks my Bipolar II Disorder hasn't affected my son.  If anything, I've been hyper-aware of the fact that I need to keep my sad emotions away from him.  I've had him cook with me and we've actually accomplished more workbook pages in this time frame than we have before (much to his chagrin). 

It's now just a waiting game.  Waiting to get to the doctor tomorrow.  Waiting to make the 1.5 hr drive to pick up the meds on Tuesday.  And waiting for them to get swimming back in my blood stream.

Ugly

I put myself back into therapy last month because I am trying desperately to work out the last kinks in my head.  I've decided that after six years on the bench I'm ready to seek out a relationship, but before I do that I know I've got a few more things to work out.

I don't want to write about this.  But I need to write this out. 

This is the constant chatter in my brain:

• You really don't have friends.  These people tolerate you out of pity.
• No one approves of your decisions and all are waiting for you to admit defeat.
• Your child is going to grow up broken because you are broken.
• You don't have any talent.  
• You're not bi-polar.  You are making it up.  You just need to work harder and stop being lazy.
• Why do you think that person would ever want to have a cup of coffee with you?  They're accomplished/written a book/not two paychecks away from homelessness/done something important.  Do you know just how dumb your daydreams are?
• No one really loves you because you disappoint them and don't do what they tell you to do.

Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale

I could have sworn that I printed up a passage from my novel.  But it appears that I haven't.  Maybe I put up a spoiler back on Facebook some time ago.

I finally got through my writer's block two weeks ago (it's only taken 2 years!) and have been able to make sufficient progress on this novel to announce that I aim to have it completed by the end of April and will launch it on the first day of summer.  This year!!!

I thought a good way to whet the appetite of potential readers (I hope) was to put up an excerpt from the first chapter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1

 Morons in the Magnolia at Midnight

 

. . . .“How the hell did you manage to loop your jeans though this damn branch?”

“I knew this was a mistake.”

I snorted derisively and contemplated how to extricate my best friend from her leafy prison.  Seeing as she had backed herself onto a thin branch and couldn’t get a good footing to climb back up and off it, I set about trying to cut the limb with my pocket knife. 

Neither of us were aware that the mattress Olympics had come to an end and that we had become the noisier duo.  It seemed that Char had managed to snag the one green limb on the entire tree, which my knife was unable to sever.

I tried another approach.  “Char, I’m gonna cut up the belt loop.”

“The hell you are!  Do you know how long it took me to find a pair of jeans that didn’t make my ass look like I’ve birthed 10 kids?”

“Look, I’ll buy you a new pair,” I pleaded.  I wanted to get out of this tree and the hell away from his house.  The tears that I’d been fighting back were now rolling down my face.  “I’ll by you two pairs.”

As I continued to struggle, the widow flew open .  “I‘m not imagining things.  I hear something out there,“ said the man.  I went stock still, hoping that it was too dark for Eddie to make out our shapes in the branches of the Magnolia. 

“You’re being too paranoid,” drawled the female, her voice like molasses sliding across Saran Wrap.  “Now come back here.”

“I dunno, Missy.  This doesn’t seem right.”

“Where did these morals come from all of a sudden?  You didn’t say that last month.  I believe your words were, “Norma Jeane could use some lessons from you.”

That was so much to handle.  “BASTARD!” I bellowed.  Forgetting the possibility of deadwood, I propelled myself to my feet and heard an sharp crack.  Before I could react, the branch snapped and I shot down feet first.
My arms pin-wheeled, seeking purchase of tree limbs but finding none.   

Some say time slows to a crawl when bad things are happening, but a million thoughts raced through my head:
This is gonna hurt.
Dummy, you knew the answer before you climbed the tree.
I hope Char figures out how to get down.
Why didn’t he just dump me?
I will murder both of them if I’ve gotten an STD.  And no one in town will blame me.
Prison orange is really ugly.
Fuck.
Fuck.

And then my left knee took the full impact of my fall.  I can’t even begin to explain the pain.  Imagine a bowling ball made of concrete smashing into your nose.  Or an elephant flying a spaceship and landing it on your foot. 

The front door exploded open and the screen door shuddered violently as Eddie kicked at it.  Clad in ratty jeans, he stomped across the porch. I groaned as I tried to rise.  Eddie reached out an assisting hand, but I knocked it away.

“Don’t touch me, you filthy yard dog,” I growled, still dazed from the fall.  “I don’t want your whore hands on me.”

“Norma Jeane, I’m so sorry.  It was an accident.”

“Oh, really?!  What happened?  Did you trip and Missy just happened to break your fall with her hallway-sized vagina?”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s uncalled for,” I yelled.  The front porch light flickered on next door and Mrs. Ginny Crawford peered out the crack of the door.  I glared at her and she quickly shut the door.  To hell with the neighbors and their opinion of me.  They’d never see me on this side of town every again.

“Norma Jeane, you are causing a scene.  What are the neighbors going to think?  Come inside.”  Eddie grabbed my arm.

And then I did a horrible thing. . . . 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

PS-The juicing and weight loss (with only a few set backs) have been going great.  I've lost about 8lbs so far.  And that's a good thing because I have to be in a wedding in the fall.

Four of Hearts

The scale seems to indicate that I lost weight, however I don't feel that I have. To tell you the truth I don't even remember what I weighed last week. All I know is that right now I feel really depressed and stressed about where I am.
Last week I had a blast on Thanksgiving. I met some new friends, I laughed really hard, learn some new references for MST 3K, and inhaled all sorts of yummy food. But when the hostess of Thanksgiving posted a picture today on FB, my immediate reaction was "I look like a fat cow."
I'm super stressed now more than ever. My Christmas plans have changed and I'm now guilt-tripping down to Florida for Christmas. So now not only am I worried that I can't financially afford this, I'm worried about the reception my weight will get. When I was down over the summer picking my son up from his summer vacation in Florida, I was rudely informed that I was fat and unhealthy.
Which comes as no surprise to me, both that the person acted that way and also, I know I'm overweight. Like all the women in my family I'm stress eater, and I tend to have a lot of stress in my life. Raising a son on my own and working full time isn't easy. I don't have the luxury to exercise whenever the mood strikes and my diet can be pretty shitty from being on the run all the time.
The problem is the people who point out my weight remember that as child and a teenager I was really active. I played soccer for 13 years, in addition to every other sport on the face of this earth. so when I was easily running 3 miles at each practice, it was no problem keeping the weight off.
But I'm not 16 anymore I'm going on 33. And yes I realize that I do need to get healthier. But its not going to make me feel more motivated to get in shape when it's pointed out that I'm fat.

Wibley Wobbley Timey Wimey Stuff

It was 14 years ago this week.  That's a long time.

Why did I remember it today?  What triggered my mind to flashback to that night?

The night I thought I was going to die.  The night I was attacked assaulted raped.

And when I didn't die that night, I wanted to kill myself.

Why did my brain have to go there today?  All day I've been reminding myself to "stay present," that I'm not trapped in a car on a freezing cold November night 14 years ago.

Today has been a struggle.

Time is not linear.  Especially when you have PTSD.

Source: H.P.Holo

More of Chapter 1

Within moments Bod had consumed the plate piled high eggs and tomatoes.  As he turned his attention to the bangers and mash, a small burp escaped from his lips. 

A pig-tailed toddler across the car giggled.  The child's mother tried to shush her all the while proclaiming with a loud, self-righteous scold that, "Some people are born with manners and others aren't."

Blissfully unaware of the sneering woman, Bod returned to the food table and served himself another steaming bowl of porridge.  He drowned the hot mash in heavy cream and sugar.  The taste was so sweet and satisfying he felt like a little child sneaking cookies from the cupboard before dinner. 

A young woman wearing an apron with a matching cap stopped by his table.  "Good morning, young Master.  Are you enjoying all your breakfast?"

When Bod looked up, the wind was knocked out of his lungs.  The girl, this girl, was it Liza Hempstock?  Where those the same dancing grey eyes that bewitched him?  Had she followed him out of the graveyard?  Surely she wasn't bound to the graveyard as she wasn't buried on consecrated ground, but how did she get so far?  And how could he see her so well, for at the height of his Freedom of the Graveyard, his ability to see her clearly was like seeing a gray cat walking in the shadows of early night.

"Liza?  How did you find me?"

"No, I'm sorry.  My name is Melody.  I work the morning shifts on the food car to London, but I think there is a girl named Lilly that works the evening shifts.  Is that who you are looking for?"

A lump formed in Bod's throat and he swallowed hard.
"No.
Sorry.
No.
You looked like a friend of mine.  I was just so surprised, so excited," Bod trailed off, unsure of how to explain that moments before he had mistake this girl for the gray-eyed witch.

Melody smiled.  "Is there anything I can get you?  You seem to have eaten your fill but would you like a glass of juice, coffee or a cuppa tea?"

"Oh yes, that would be marvelous!"

"Alright, so which would you like?"

"All of them."  And then seeing the puzzled look on the girl's face, Bod wondered if he made a mistake.  "Uhhhhh, if that's allowed."

"That's quite alright.  I shouldn't be staring.  You are welcome to anything you'd like.  I've just never heard of anyone wanting all three drinks at once," she chuckled.

"Well, I've never seen so many different food and smelled so many odors.  And they're all good.  Except that stuff labeled haggis.  Looks a fright.  But I keep smelling something pointy and I must have it.  Can you bring me the pointy thing?"

"I'm not sure what Young Master wants, but I will bring the drinks round."

"Please, don't call me Master." Remembering the Sleer had told him to find his name, he said proudly, "I'm Nobody.  Nobody Owens.  Bod for short." 

"Okay, Mister Nobody Owens, I'll see if we can find this pointy thing for you."

With a wink and a turn on her heel Melody strode away from the table.  

Is This What You Wanted?

I am angry.

I cried today.

I am very angry.

I am disappointed in some.

I am grateful to others.

I am FURIOUS.

But I will get over this.

I sat on a bathroom floor and cried today.

Trembling

My brain snapped when I was 18.

I'd come from a long line of anxiety and depression riddled family members; it was only natural that I would inherit the chemical gene and growing up in an environment where I could sense the prevailing anxiety and depression that loomed in the air shaped my natural temperament.  Yet I was a happy child with a fanciful imagination, but always tinged with sadness, fear, and self-doubt.


I probably could have gone my entire life not really being too effected by my chemical imbalance.  I would have had my happy days and my not so happy days.  I would have been able to chalk things up to PMS, lack of sleep, or poor diet. 


But then my brain snapped when I was 18. 


Raped.
Verbally Abused.
Stalked.
Humiliated.
Belittled.
Threatened.


One night I thought I was going to choke to death.


But I pushed it all away.  Convinced myself that I was to blame, that I should have stayed away, that it was really just a bad breakup.

For years my heart would race uncontrollably at times.  I would cry without understanding what had set me off.  I'd jump every time I saw men with dark crew-cut hair or glasses. I would scream if people, intentionally or accidentally, walked up behind me without my knowledge. 

I just shook it off; I'd tell myself that  I was a spaz, jumpy, just high strung.  The doctor's have a name for that.  


PTSD

 It was almost 12 years ago, but sometimes there is a trigger that my subconscious picks.  One moment I am fine, the next my hands begin to tremble, my pulse races, and my airways narrow making each breath a challenge. 


And it's so fucking frustrating!  


I internally berate myself: 
                    "It was over 12 years ago!  Get the fuck over it!  Are you putting on a 
                     show  for attention?  Why do you have to randomly make it apparent 
                     that you aren't fully functional?  Can't you knock it off?"


Intellectually, I know the mind stores memories very deep.  That these uncontrollable, unintentional, involuntary reactions are part of who I am, who I have become.  

I know that they are part of me, that they will always be lurking in the dark recesses of my conscious.  

But I know they are not going to rule my life.

So I sit here, trembling and fighting to take a deep breath, waiting for this storm to pass.  The calm will arrive eventually; I will be exhausted, needing to crawl into bed. 


Jesus told the storms to calm; please Lord send that peace my way.

For My Next Act I'm Gonna Be A Female Version of J. Jonah Jameson. (Except Less Pissed Off At Toby McGuire, I Mean, Peter Parker)

Just As Colorful, But Less Inspired.

Once upon a time a little girl lived on a dead-end street down by a river, but she didn't live in a van down by the river.  She had a great imagination and was so full of confidence that she believed that everyone on the street would enjoy reading a newspaper that she created.  So throughout one summer she made up stories about neighbor's houses catching fire and lost dogs that never existed.

Having no access to a mimeograph machines (kids, that what we called copiers back in the day) she painstakingly re-wrote each article in perfect D'Nealian handwriting and illustrated each copy.  Critics would later likened those surviving first editions to St. John's Illuminated Bible. 

Days passed.  The little gazettes were ignored by most neighbors.  The papers, lovingly bound with rubber bands were mistaken for mass mailing flyers and were tossed in garbage cans without a second look.

The little girl saw all this.  Her labor of love and creativity trashed.  She pondered for a moment and thought, "Well, there goes two days of work for nothing.  I'm gonna swim now."  Because really?  What kid wouldn't want to swim in the neighbor's pool?
________________________________________________

Twenty plus years later, on this particular day, this now older girl (because she maintains she will NEVER GROW UP) met up with two editors.  Between these two editors their resumes spanned the globe: NY Times, Boston Globe, Miami Herald, Tampa Tribune; they had worked in Germany, South American, Thailand, India.  To say the least, it was an impressive meeting.

What began as an interview for a recurring column on health, fitness, and dog care (how those go together, she wasn't sure), turned into an offer to be a manager of a regional newspaper. The editors were impressed with her background, her skills, and her adventurous spirit.  Her first business meeting will take place on Saturday and by Monday, she'll hit the ground running.

And she lived happily ever after.  Until she couldn't fall asleep because she was so excited!
________________________________________________

(So these are the details of the story.  I had answered an ad on Craigslist that advertized a position of a writer for the Dade City community for a on-line newspaper.  After speaking briefly on the phone to one of the owner and playing telephone tag over the holidays, I wasn't too convinced that I wouldn't be meeting up with two retirees who decided to take up on-line news reporting as a hobby.  However, I kept the appointment and the rest is as above.

Long before we had giant news corporations, towns and communities put out their own papers.   So my job is to launch the Dade City version of this newspaper.  It'll feature local events and people.  And seeing as we all have a natural propensity towards narcissism it shouldn't be too hard to have the highschool kids phone their sports scores to me, soccer moms to email pictures, and the garden club to wax poetic about their spring blooms.  People love reading about themselves.  Small businesses will get exposure on a level that they couldn't afford before.


I have to sell ad space in addition to managing articles that need to be published, editing documents for quality, and making contacts within the community.  And I think I really can do it.


The wonderful thing about these editors is that they understand the meaning of community.  15% of each client's ad fee will go into a community slush fund.  Once a month, 10 members from the community will decide where that money will go, whether to a needy family, replacing flower beds around city hall, or improving existing buildings.  

I'm going to be helping small businesses develop.  I'm going to know that children will smile when they can point to an article and recognize their face from the action shots captured during a game.  It'll be amazing to know that whatever ad revenue I can pull in will go to help those who might not be in a good spot, places that I've been in before. 


It's going to be a lot of hard work, especially in the beginning.  But I can still work from home, (yea for yoga pants!), set my own hours, and keep working with The Band.  This is an amazing chance for growth for me.


I know I will still have my days where my demons want to drag me down into depressive, anxiety ridden pits of self-doubt.  I know that I will freak out and get writers block.  But I know that I can keep fighting through it.  I know I can do it.)


And I know that I have you, dear readers, to thank.  Your comments, your warm wishes keep me up.  Thanks for believing in me thus far.

My Sacrifice

I have been trying to talk myself out of a panic attack since last night. So far, I've kept the crazy feelings down, but they are fighting to get to the surface.  I hate putting this down in binary code, because to me, I sound like a pathetic broken record.  I hate that I just can't "get over it" (as I've been told to do) some of the residual anger that festers in my soul.  I hate that after 6.5 years I still long to be back up in VA, not the state that I was raised in, but the state where I 'grew up.'
 
I know I am sick and run down from taking care of The Kiddo. I probably have walking pneumonia if not my chronic sinusitis acting up.  I***know***that in a day or two I should be doing better.  I'll have been seen by a doctor and hopefully given something I help me kick this illness to the curb.  I just ***feel***like crying.

I am excited about going to VA in 87 days (but who is counting) yet terrified of the feelings I am going to have to deal with. I miss living up there so much. I had to give it up when I had my son. It has been such a sacrifice.

One one hand, my family is here, we are surrounded by a great group of people from our Church, and the Kiddo is getting a great education. He's lacking for nothing.  I do not regret choosing the life of my son over my desires.  I love him so much and know that his life is responsible on so many levels for me getting my life together.

But I am so alone down here. There isn't anyone I know down here that I can talk to, that has SOME of the same interests as I do. I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm not going to apologize and hide who I am like I've done before, but I'm just so tired of doing it alone.  In this area, if you aren't a good ole' country gal or a pretentious country club groupie/doctor chaser, than that's it.  This town, cute and quaint as it may be, isn't big in diversity. 

One of my cousins said I should move to Asheville because there are so many artists. I'd probably feel right at home, though what I gather from Portlandia, I'd be happy there too.

I'm so tired of being lonely.

I'm still angry that my son's father cowed under the pressure we faced.  That his parents paid for me go away, but wouldn't help me when I was sick.  We weren't together when I conceived.  I had realized that our relationship as a couple was a toxic combo.  But we had been friends for years before we had ever become involved.  I'm so pissed that he couldn't stand on his own two feet and ran to his parents like a baby.  I'm so angry that I had to give up living in a place for me that felt like home. 

I'm so tired of carrying this anger and hurt around.  I hate that I hate living where I am.  I hate that I'm not happy here. I hate knowing that I would hate myself  if I took The Kiddo away from the only life he's know just to satisfy my selfish desires.

Just Do It

My head spins.

My demons, my insecurities, things I have been told before tell me that I am no good, that I can't write to save my life, that my job to provide for my son is a huge, fucking joke.

• I think I could love you, even though you didn't have a good education.
• You're not capable.
• We doubted that you'd bond with your son.
• When are you getting a real job? 
• You have readers in Kuwait? So what?

I doubt myself, I cringe when I think of writing.

Just do it, dammit!

You know you are better than this, you've come so far and you are still afloat.  Remember the tattoo you have? You might not know your plans but God does and so far He has dropped you. 

Write the damn book!

Stop doubting yourself! 

You are worth it, your life is wonderfully interesting, and your wonderful, wild imagination should be a playground for the world. 

You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

The Difference Between Wants and Needs

Several years ago I when I was still a wreck,* I believed that I NEEDED a man to complete my life.  I was a new mom, very single, very sad, very scared.  I felt rejected on so many levels.  The thing that hurt that most, that I have not gotten over yet, that I know is still hanging like a big, fucking albatross around my neck is the fact that the newsletter writer for my alma mater told me that my 'situation' wasn't something that others needed to know about.**  I hated myself so much.  Like Hester Pryne, I had proof positive of my sins, while the father hid in the shadows.  I felt that if I HAD a man to give some type of legitimacy to my child, than I would be a socially acceptable person again.

Fast forward to present day.  My son is turning 6 on Wednesday.  He's excelling in school where he thinks he's the big man on campus, is loved by his family, and couldn't be more adorably cute if I asked him to be. I have pictures to back that up:

 

I've come to understand over the past 2 years with a lot of help from a wonderful therapist, a handful of loving friends, and an amazing Band  to back me up, that I don't NEED a man to make my life complete.  I don't feel like a scarlet whore any longer.

I've come to a point where I WANT a man in my life.  I want to share my life with someone else.  I want someone to sleep next to me at night.  That person who can meet my eyes and know that the person I am talking to is a complete idiot.  I want someone who will love and respect me the way I know I deserve to be treated.

I'm lonely tonight.  I hate having these feelings that I can't do anything with.  I'm through needing someone.  I'm ready to want someone.



*I don't claim to have all my shit together, but I am a far more happier, SANER, grounded person now. My life isn't the shambles it once was.

**I finally sent an email to that asshole tonight.  He's finally going to get a piece of my mind.

Exhausted, Yet Alive

I'm tired.  Not just tired, but beyond fucking exhausted.  Like it hurts to keep my eyes open and feel as if I am moments away from bursting into tears, but I have to write.

My mind has been still for too long, my soul shut up and chained.  And I'm finally finding sweet relief. 

Things has started off badly about a month ago.  I had a massive panic attack for 2 DAYS. I'm not sure what triggered it exactly but it was a combo of dealing with child support remodifications paper work
and finding some of the hateful letters my ex sent trying to convince me to give up my son, hating my weight which is more than it needs to be, feeling inadequate around the soccer moms at Jeremiah's
school (one mom started her sentence with 'my husband the dr'), not being able to see my shrink for over 3 months because I was/am broke, and stressed about being REALLY fucking broke. 

Like beyond broke. At one point I was down to $3. I wasn't just robbing Peter to pay Paul but I was beating the shit out of the other Apostles. I had lost my internet, received my final motice for my electric bill, my rent
was over due along with my car payment is overdue, and I had two bills that got resent to collection when my scheduled payments bounced.

It's not that I'm not working!

I am busting my ass everyday. And now it looks like things might be turning a corner.  Good things are finally coming my way.  I'm going to be teaching math to 3 and 4 year old every Tuesday and Thursday, so within a few months that should be a stable source of income that will allow me to finally break from from writing crappy $2 articles.  I'll be able to focus so much more of my time into my writings.

I've been asked to join the editorial board for Band Back Together, which just applied for non-profit status.  Things are taking off for this group and I am so proud to be a part of it.  I cut my hair to my sassy, kick-ass, curly short style that's I've dodged for three years. 

I know things are changing, I'll be doing good as long as I plug on. 

Fatty Gets the Last Laugh

Hey Maura Kelly, remember when you wrote that piece of drivel "Should Fatties Get A Room (Even on TV)?" How did it feel seeing Melissa McCarthy walk across stage in front of MILLIONS upon MILLIONS of views to accept that Emmy?


Did it make you a little sick inside?  ***" To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room."***  Did you want to run and purge because a fat person has gotten an award that will never touch your hands?

I've got news for you sweetie, you are a jerk.

In a society where girls are bombarded with images of slender sexuality and giant, fake boobs (see Toddler and Tiaras, more on that later) there stood a proud, confident, large woman who got where she was by being herself.

I love Melissa McCarthy in all her wonderful, funny humor.  And I love that she makes no apologies for her size.

Like that foot you've choked  on?
  

Milestones #2 & 3

Back in March, I reached my first milestone, 101 posts.  It was a fantastic feeling, waxy buildup on teeth included.  And now 6 months down the road, I'm at 2 & 3.

(Actually, I'm behind.  These things happened last month but since I'm the only one who keeps track of this, I'll write about it when I damn well want to.)

Milestone #2
The Kiddo started Kindergarten!  I couldn't be more proud of him if I wanted to.  

Heirloom lunchbox

 
There were no tears that day.  When he greeted me at the end of the day, his exact words were, "I had so much fun, I forgot to miss you!"
I take a lot of pride in the statement.  It is proof that I've done a hell of a great job raising this kid.  So to all the assholes over the years who said I was going to raise a momma's boy/sissy/weakling, I can say, "Screw you."  He's not the biggest kid in the class, but he's not the smallest.  He's still deathly afraid of butterflies, but he's the most out-going.  His penmanship is awful right now, but he amuses his teacher with his comical facial expressions and Italianesque hand gestures. 
He'll be 6 in less than 2 months and he's doing great.  So for all those who told me I couldn't raise a healthy child without a father, how do you words taste now?

Milestone #3
Happy Blogaversary to me.  I've been here at My Daily Diatribes for over a year now.  What started as a bad blind-date with an awkward handful of posts as I sought to find my voice, has turned into a full-blown love affair with the written word.  Over the past year I have come to face some of the more comical aspects of life around me, faced some of my fears, bared my soul, sought support, and found strength in becoming me.  

• Thank you so much for all the wonderful people who have encouraged me along the way.  
• Thank you to the people I've met through Aunt Becky and The Band.
• Thank you to my business partner Amanda Abella, for giving me advice on how to stop whining and start making my writing my job.
• Thank you to Jenny Lawson who makes me laugh, cry, and feel better for being quirky, wonderful me.
• Thank you, my readers who come back time and time again to catch up on my ramblings and think I am the bees knees.  I am STILL surprised that people read this stuff.

Stay tuned for year 2!

Committing Myself

So here's something embarrassing about me, my dirty little secret (other than the fact that I am watching Phineas and Ferb while I write this).  My life is bordering on Teh Normal right now.  And I don't know what to do.

For so long I've lived in a constant state of CHAOS that now I am in a position of near normalcy, I feel totally out of whack.  According to my shrink this isn't uncommon.  I mean,

• I have a ton of talent some which I recently discovered (thank you YouTube tutorials on Kompozer web design!), 
• I have a growing clientele base, 
• I've got a great group of people that I can reach at any moment (seeing as some live in the UK, one in Hong Kong, and the rest are scattered across the US it's high percentage that one of us will be online)
• My Kiddo is absolutely flourishing in school
• I am actually able to let go of a lot of the hatred and doubt that I've struggled with for years

yet I feel like things need to be out of control in order for me to feel secure.  I've been so accustomed with being in a constant of turmoil that I feel so out of touch, like I need to create some insanity.

What I realize that I am looking for is a way to sabotage myself.  And that is SUCKTASTIC!

I don't want to be THAT girl that is always in over her head.  I've  been there for years and I want to leave it behind.  Yes, this is a new and (for now) unpleasant experience of having to rediscover normalcy, but I have to settle into this new routine.

How weird is that?  Feeling uncomfortable that my life is now bordering on Teh Normal. 

I am going to make a commitment to myself, right here and now that I will not sabotage myself.  I will do what I do best and I will continue on this calmer path.

I know I can do it. 

Am I an adult who enjoys cartoons?  

Yes, yes, I am.

When 18 isn't 18

I was 17 when I met him.

He was 23.  He was a former Marine.  He was a jackal hiding behind a songbird.

I was 18 the first time he touched me.

18.

I was a legal adult.  By the time I was able to admit to myself what had happened, the statute of limitation had expired.

I was 18, but I may as well have been 12. 

I grew up in a very conservative, very sheltered household.  I was a homeschooled, outspoken sports jock, who preferred a good book to fawning over the local high-school meatheads.  But that didn't mean I didn't dream about having my first kiss.

My parents didn't allow me to date, which meant if a boy wanted to see me, he'd have to come to the house so we could be chaperoned.  Of the three boys that dared to come over to my house for dinner, 2 never called me again, the other turned out to be gay.

I had no working knowledge of boys, emotions, or physical responses.  Sure, I knew the physical act of sex and procreation but that was only because I read my science books.  My sex education went like this: "Sometimes boys want to kiss you a lot.  You just have to tell them no."  Put like that, it seemed to me that kissing was an awkward event that girls merely tolerated while they were dating.

When I went away for a weekend visit at what would become my Alma Mater, I met him.  It was at a dance, "A Night in Old Vienna." Girls were dressed in mock ball gowns from yesteryear and boys wore ties and coats.  Dance cards were given to the visiting kids, so they could meet up with different people on the dance floor.  He was third on my list.  For years I wondered how God could have allowed his name to appear on my dance card.  I realized in the end, it didn't matter.  I was his target.  One way or another, he would have found a way to get at me.

He was charming and flattering.  Praised my intelligence and wit.  He said I was pretty and that the boys at home were stupid for failing to see what they were missing.  I thought I had found the perfect man.  What I didn't know was that I was going to be another victim to this serial predator.

For six months, we corresponded by mail.  He sent me a country CD of love songs for my 18th birthday.  The man in the letters was so polite, so well spoken, so considerate of me as a whole person.  He said in his letters that he would 'protect my virtue.'  I was in love.

My first kiss was during a walk in the wood.  The next night, he taught me to french kiss by the water sewer lines on campus.  The first time he touched my breast 2 days later, I objected, said I didn't feel comfortable with him doing that.  He assured me that it was okay, that 'lovers have rights over each others bodies.'  I didn't know what to say, how to respond.  It didn't seem right. It felt so dirty. 

I felt dirty.  But I loved him.

I stayed with him for 5 months.  I hated every minute of it.  But I stayed because I was scared, because I didn't know better, because I felt ashamed, because when I tried to say no he always talked me out of it, because the one time I tried to physically run away from him he chased me and tossed me against a building.  But something inside me still loved him.

He did things to me.  He mocked me.  He hurt me.

The night he forced me down on him, I thought I was going to die.  I was choking, I couldn't breathe.  I was crying, begging him to let me stop.  He wouldn't let me.  When I couldn't do what he wanted, he finished himself off.  I was horrified.  I was disgusted.  I wanted to die.  I no longer loved him. 

I wanted him to die.

That was 12 years ago, but this is the first time I've shared this without breaking down in tears.  During those years I did some horrible things, to myself, to others. I hurt a friend, I lied to family, destroyed property, blacked out from booze binges, narrowly avoided arrest twice, and got dumped while 20 weeks pregnant.

I can't undo what happened or how my life was effected, but I'm making peace.  All things happen for a reason, even when they don't make sense at the time.  I'm not whitewashing the pain or the events that took place, but I am understanding how my life path has been shaped and not destroyed by what occurred.   

Message to my Younger Self

At 30 I'm becoming far more comfortable in my skin than was at 20.  If I could go back in time, I'd tell myself this:

• Don't obsess about the size of your thighs beginning at 8.  You will be a skilled soccer player for 13 years and those muscles will serve you well.
• When the little shits in 7th grade makes fun of you for your disastrous 'mushroom bowl' haircut, calling you a lesbian, don't just cry, kick them in the crotch.
• That boy in choir you will have a 4 year crush on?  News flash, he's gay.  He'll never put the moves on you, no matter how many times he drives you home from play practice.
• You will never make Coquina Shell soup.  Stop collecting hundreds of defenseless sea creatures in sand buckets which you will repeatedly forget in the sun.  Every damn time you go the beach.
• When you have the chance to ride around in a decommissioned ambulance to get donuts at 2 in the morning, stay out all night.  You'll wind up skipping class anyways.
• When all your friends tell you that getting involved with G is wrong, don't listen to them.  Things won't be any different.  He will leave you when you are 20 wks pregnant but your child will be the best thing in the world.
• Never, ever, ever feel bad about being true to yourself.

And since I can't go back in time to tell myself this, I tell all the young women out there.  Love yourself and don't put up with any shit.  You deserve so much better.

Big Momma Would've Been Proud

Since I'm writing for Assocaitaed Content again, I'm hoping to expand my audience and gain more clients.  Business has been slow and I'm trying to rally.  I was assigned to write a short fictional piece, so I based my story on a fictionalized event from my Gonga's life.  For instance,  Big Momma was actually the name of my great-great-great Grandmother Orbie Johnson, and it was a steak knife, not an icepick.

Enjoy!

As I trod barefoot across the worn wooden floor, I bent down to pick up the discarded tissues that lay scattered. My friend Judy sat cross-legged on a worn couch, wrapped in a multi-colored afghan despite the sweltering mid-day Georgia heat. Half packed boxes filled with stacks of framed pictures awaited packing peanuts and bubble wrap. A bookshelf of dog-eared romance novels had been pushed aside to reveal a small hole in the wall. Curious but respectful of Judy's present anguish I squelched my desire to look inside.

"Judy, I'm so sorry Big Momma died. I know you've heard that so many times already, so I won't try to offer you any false comfort. Death stinks and right now is a rotten time, but I'm here to help you. We've got to get this place packed up and cleared out by the end of the week before the condo association changes the locks on your Grandma's place." 

Sighing, Judy cast off the afghan and stood up. "Thanks for coming. I just can't motivate myself to finalize anything. I get a box half packed and then I find something of hers that makes me cry. I know once I seal these boxes shut, I have to admit that she's gone. I can't pretend that she's in the kitchen frying chicken."

"I know dear. Loosing my Grandma last year was difficult and I was fortunate to have the nursing staff handle all her affects. I wish you had that, but since you don't I'll do what I can to make this easier."

Determined to move Judy into action, I tossed a tissue at her. "Come on. Big Momma wouldn't want you crying. She'd be telling you to put on some makeup and go buy drinks for the cute guy at the bar. Here's a box."
 
For the next three hours we packed pictures, dusty figurines, and assorted knickknacks into stiff cardboard boxes. I would run the tape dispenser across the top while Judy looked away. We talked about friends we grew up with, gossiped about the local beauty queens affair with the town mayor, occasionally reminiscing about Big Momma. When we arrived at the bookshelf I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer.

"Judy, why on earth is there a hole in the wall behind the bookshelf?"

She began to laugh, the first time in days. "Big Momma hid an ice pick in there so the cops wouldn't find it."  

If you want to find out why Big Momma hid an icepick in the wall, follow this link to read the remainder of the article.