5 Minutes

One friend I made through Band Back Together is Jana.  She lost her son her Charlie on the 24th day of his life, due to Late Onset Group B Strep.  Her story is heartbreaking and powerful.  She is a wonderful woman with strength I wish I had.

Each Sunday she poses a challenge to herself and others to free write for 5 minutes straight.  No filter, just whatever happens as your fingers dance across the keyboard.

I realized today, after the enormity of some news I've gotten, that I need to write through this confusion and pain every day.  Even if it is only five minutes.

Off to set the kitchen timer.

300 Seconds Inside My Brain
I think the bbq I ate for lunch was bad.  My stomach is rolling.

Maybe it's because of the news Jeremiah's shrink gave me the other day.  My son has Tourette Syndrome and GAD aka Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

WTF.

I'm still reelling. I knew things weren't going right back in November, so I started getting help for him.  I knew in the back of my head that he had issues, but when the doctor said these out loud it made it all the more real.

If one person asks me if my son curses uncontrollably i will PUNCH THEM IN THEIR STUPID FACE.

Will I get jail time for that?

I can't think straight.  I'm going a little crazy today.  Yesterday was terrible for him.  He stayed with a friend who was also watching two other kids.  They were girls.  Horrible, obnoxious, brats from the outer rings of Hell.  I think they could annoy Satan.

He was great while he was there, but the moment he got home, all hell broke loose for him.  All the pent up rage and frustration boiled over.  He punched his dummy.  He laid down on the bed and kicked.  Screamed into his pillow.  Threaten to punch himself in the head.

Today. It Sucked.

     "I see you like to color coordinate.  Does the carpet match the drapes?"


   "I like when women say whatever they want.  I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

  "Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post.  As in after.  There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be.  It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks.  Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often.  I rarely wear make-up.  Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick.  I don't bathe in milk and honey.  I don't roll in pheromones.  At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me.  And it terrifies me.  It makes me so angry and sad.  Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months.  "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm.  One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy.  I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.  

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today.  And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do.  I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow.  Or at least I'll fake it.  My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day. 

Socks

The other day I had the following conversation with my mom :

"I saw someone at the store yesterday and when I described her to your father and siblings, everyone had the same reaction.

This woman was wearing a tiara, black and red striped knee socks, and lime green sneakers.

Everyone asked, 'Is Caroline in town?"

"No Mom, I wasn't in town, but I am wearing pink and green knee socks."

Ahhh, it's good to be me. 

Happy New Year -- A Year in Pictures

I've come so far during this past year, made so many changes in 2012, that I feel like a new(er) woman.

And looking back on the past 365 days I:

Packed up my son, sold 93% of my belongings, and moved to VA for a job

Confronted some old demons and finally got the last word

Was able to bring to light my shameful struggles

Said good bye to old friends, made room for the new

Celebrated marriages

Mourned deaths

Held new life

Started "Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale" to be published this year

Passed on my love of graveyards

And made the most kick ass costume

Rediscovered an old love, that time apart didn't diminish things

     I changed the dynamics within the my relationship with my parents, took better control of my anxieties, and braved through some rotten days.

2012, it was nice knowing ya.  2013 bring it on!

Where I Do Chick Lit

Inspiration usually strikes in the kneecaps for me.  Like when I run into a bookshelf as I make a middle of the night bathroom trek.  And it struck me tonight in the shower.

Inspiration, not the bookshelf.  That would be weird.  And really creepy.  I think I'd call an exorcist if my bookshelf came into the bathroom.

Anyways.............My brain tossed together a novel while I was in the shower.  Fragments of Facebook friends status updates on "30 days of thankfulness" plus someone mentioning what they would do with a ton of money was the inspiration behind this new brainchild of mine.

So I registered for National Novel Writing Month and began the process of giving birth to "Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale."  Here's what I've got so far. 

There’s a joke that goes like this: What’s the difference between a Northern and a Southern fairy tale?

A Northern fairy tale begins ‘Once upon a time.’
A Southern fairy tale begins ‘Now y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.’

I don’t believe in fairy tales.  At the age of 5, my mother informed me that I should have been a miscarriage, but I was too much of a stubborn bitch to just die.  And that was when she was sober.  She was worse when drunk, but that was usually not until after lunch. 

When I was 7 I found her drowned in her own vomit, but thinking that she was sleeping off a particularly bad bender I didn’t realized for 2 days that she had died.  When the motel manager came looking for the weeks rent, I remember how he rifled through our meager belongings, pocketed a handful of dollars, the remainder of my mother’s booze, and a pocket watch that I believe belonged to my Grandpa.  Only then did he call the cops after threatening me not to say anything.  The state swooped in, dropping me in foster care until they located Great Aunt Mathilda. 

I’m sure you’d like me to say that I cried for the loss of my mother, but I felt more relieved.  I was uneducated, so accustomed to chaos and disorder that when I overheard Great Aunt Mathilda tell her neighbor that I was a like a feral cat, I thought my chest would burst with pride.  The cat on the Fancy Feast commercial had such pretty fur, and the Meow Mix cats were so cute, I knew that I must be very lucky.

When I learned what feral meant the next day I cried.  For three days.

But this really isn’t the story of my childhood and how I grew up.  This is really the story of a million dollars and my attempt to spend it all in 100 days.

My name is Norma Jeane.

Now pull up a chair, ‘cuz y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

 (And before you ask, yes, my mother named me after HER).

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Norma Jeane, or J as she prefers to be called, grew up on a diet of fried chicken, collard greens, and biscuits with a heaping dose of crazy Great Aunt Mathilda.  She never expected to leave the confines of Woodbine, but all that changed the day her geriatric patient died.  Handed a million dollars and a to do list, J has 100 days to complete her mission. 

Ride along in Great Aunt Mathilda's ancient Firebird as J, Gam and her bulldog UGA  criss-cross the US following the directives of an eccentric millionaire.