My Daily Diatribes

Saturday, September 10, 2011

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!

Friday, September 2, 2011

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.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

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.

Friday, August 12, 2011

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.

Here Comes The Sun--From Miami to Fort DeSoto

<When I question my sanity (which is often) I take solace in remembering that as long as I can realize I'm being a nut, I'm not a complete nut. I might be a disorganized serial writer at times, but comforting words from kind friends can renew my spirits rather well.>

On a lighter note, I've got some of my pics from recent trip to Miami while my frister Kathy was in town. (Frister is my term for friend/almost sister).