Monday, December 24, 2012


I've gotten started on working alot of shit out with this blog. I am so grateful that this opportunity exists for everyone who, like me, have certain crosses to bear. I have more peace right now than I've had in 37 years. It's cathartic. I'm very grateful to this community for its existence. There's alot to be said for knowing you're not in it alone.

I'm not a religious person, but please accept my wish to you for a peaceful holiday season with fewer fucktards to trample the snot out of a genuine existence.

Thanks, ya'll.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Creaking Onward

Saw the mother at sis's place on Friday. She greeted me with a hug and desperately hissed in my ear, "I love you." It sounds warm and fuzzy on paper, but it seemed very odd - in timing and something else I'm not putting my finger on. When she had the real opportunity to speak to me later in the afternoon, which I somewhat dreaded, though we were surrounded by other people, the only thing she wanted to talk about is how she had to turn the Kirby vacuum salesman in to the BBB. Not, how's my little boy doing in school, or how's my big boy doing because he's moving to his own place next week. Not about real things, important things. Her big important moment in the sun where I really wanted her to prove to me I'm wrong in all my feelings about her, and she just presented this strange nugget. It's about her, and it's negative. Lovely.

Otherwise, not a bad day.

I've been frantic the last couple weeks trying to get the oldest ready to move into his place. He can't understand my push to get things done ahead of time as much as possible, so I'm trying to take it as easy as I mentally can, but I'm really fucking nervous and overwhelmed. I keep being worried something will fall through and ruin his chance to live at this place, but so far so good. He's his only enemy that I'm aware of, in that he just needs to remember the things he needs to do to be happy and healthy. This place should be great - his own apartment with everything he physically needs, plus staff support. I'm mad at myself for being beside myself with nerves. One of the staff told me this is not unlike what all parents go through when a kid leaves the nest, so maybe this is normal??

Oh, yeah, and the guy that has been telling me since September he's going to get my fucking house painted "this weekend" can suck my big toe. You can't paint now that it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Dick. And I'm the numbnuts who took this long to tell you to get bent. So, yay me.

The holiday tree is up and the cats are chewing ornaments off the tree and the hubs is watching some rich fuckers play golf in Dubai in HD. The kids are upstairs farting around. And I'm really fighting myself not to go hit the vodka, but I know I've got lots of other shit to do that's more important. I just need to keep thinking about that.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Holiday Trigger

I don't remember a year when I didn't dread the holidays. The thought of seeing my mother over the holidays is freaking me the fuck out. I am utterly overwhelmed. What am I going to do?

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

On Tyranny

Reading back through some of the postings in Anna Valerious' blog and I came across her entry entitled "The Family Tyrant." In this post, she talks about how narcissists try to keep "outsiders" away. In my family, the outsiders were the healthy people in the family. After my NF's parents died, NF told his (normal) brother and sisters that now that his parents were gone, he was done with them. That fucking coward knew that his parents wouldn't put up with that behavior, and they were the bright, shining spot in my sisters and my youth, so he waited until they were dead and couldn't stand up for us, and then BAM.

After that period of time, the only contact I remember having with my favorite aunt, NF's sister, is when my mother would take us to see her a couple of towns away. This was invariably when dad was out of town for work.

Dad would think nothing at all of inviting the skeeviest fucks to our house to eat dinner (and criticize mom's cooking) and spend the night in the room next to mine, but we couldn't have contact with the only normal members of our family. I could fall asleep at night with a steak knife I horked out of the silverware drawer because I didn't have a lock on my door, which didn't even shut properly anyway, and the only thing separating me from a creep would be a wall while my sister and parents' bedrooms were at the other end of the house. We could still go visit my mother's crazy fucking mom, and we did, almost every weekend - hours and hours of sitting in a dark house while she commandeered games of dominoes and talked smack, sometimes about me in front of me, without my mom or dad standing up for me. God forbid we got to communicate with healthy people who could really see what was going on.

I will never forgive my father for trying cutting us off from the only healthy family members we had. I can't forgive my mother for allowing all his stupidity and allowing her N-mother to treat us the way she did.

Fuck them.

Now I can talk to my favorite aunt at my own leisure, but without having in essence known her from the age of 8ish until I was an adult, I feel awkward. She's always so good and kind to me and my kids. I was cheated. My sister was cheated.

Again, fuck them.

It's getting on toward the holidays, and I think the time will come when I'll have to be see mom again at a family function. I can feel the poison now. Now that I've had space, I can really see how wound up and angry I get just at the thought of seeing her and her doing her "What???" routine. "God forgives me, why can't my girls?" Your god didn't save me from you and him, mother.

My belief system operates on a different set of rules, the primary of which is protecting and nurturing my kids. I will never allow them to be in danger when I can prevent it. I will only surround them with healthy people. I never want them to know the helpless, sick feeling.

Anna's Blog Entry:

Thursday, October 25, 2012


The end of a long-ass week and the beginning of a tall cold drink.

I'm getting really dissatisfied dealing with the snot on the sleeve of society.

Where's the positive change I wanted to make? It can't be naivete to want this. The highlight of my career is when I get to put on the bunny costume at Easter and get driven place to place by deputies to make little kids smile.

I've got a job I do well. I know how lucky I really am. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to effect positive change.

I can only hope that somewhere along the way I'm the person who the little kid with the cracked-out parents fondly remembers, or that I am maybe setting a positive example.

I was born into a family of weirdos. The whole town of 300 we lived in knew how fucked up my family was, which added embarassment to the richness of turmoil. Kids wrote graffiti on the metal culvert at the end of my street that the man up the hill was a bastard. I tried to tell myself they meant the other old bastard on our street, but I knew better.

I started not getting along with other people in school in about 3rd grade and I was having behavioral problems. By 8th grade, I was mean. I decided I'd rather be respected than liked, but I was confusing respect with frightening people into silence. My angst was equalled only by the amount of eyeliner I used.

The minute I turned 16, I got a job working as a waitress in a nearby town. It was great training in people-pleasing, and I got decent tips. My parents didn't want me to have a social life, but they certainly didn't mind that I would go to school on Friday, work graveyard shift Friday and Saturday nights, and go back to school on Monday exhausted. If I was making money so I wasn't a burden on 'em, that was great. If I had a date, I had to be home by midnight. Always burned my ass, because I could be out all night making a buck and that was ok, but I damned well better not be having fun. I remember dad telling me he was going to charge me rent when I was 16. I told him if I was going to pay rent I was going to fucking move out and pay rent. Then he backtracked and tried to say all the rent I paid he was going to save and give to me for a graduation present, but if I really didn't want that...aww, how sweet. He was going to gift me my own money. He dropped it. I didn't pay rent. I should have moved out. I really hated my life. I daydreamed of suicide. When I finally worked up the guts to tell my mom I needed help, she told me they certainly didn't have the money for that kind of thing. Later that night she came to me crying and bawling, saying, "You're not really going to kill yourself, are you?" I told her what she wanted to hear. I was anointed her best friend, but she wouldn't help me seek help. I couldn't count on her. I didn't try to tell anyone else my problems. I would just embarass the family. Like they needed any help.

Later in my 16th year, after a string of boyfriends who have long since become felons (one went to prison for attempting to murder a prostitute - true story), I met the coolest bad guy. He was 22 and drove a '77 TransAm (just like the Bandit but without a T-top). He was a great mix of sweet and pissy and I was a complete fool for this guy. I got knocked up about a year later, at the beginning of my senior year, about the time I was wondering if this is where my life should be taking me, but I sure as shit wasn't responsible enough to prevent getting knocked up, so I figured this was my path. By that time, I could see the chinks in the knight's shining armor.

My father's reaction to my getting knocked up was so fucking weird. I expected to get clubbed upside the head or kicked out. He said, "I'm proud of you." Wow, proud of me for having sex and getting knocked up? WTF. I have no idea what he was thinking. He did say, "You thought daddy was going to yell at you, didn't you." Well, yeah. Most parents who gave a shit would. But whatever.

I stayed in school long enough so I didn't screw up the speech thing for the other seniors in group speech on my team. Right after we got I's at district but learned we hadn't been chosen for state, I arranged with my principal to take my last credits at home. I moved out of my parents' house that same day and into the boyfriend's apartment a few towns away. My parents pretended they wanted what was best for me, but they were for me to go. My sister was a well-liked cheerleader and they had hope for her. She was a credit to them.

The next few years are a haze of searching for reasons why my life wasn't working out, but I forced myself into denial. I worked full time and struggled to find good daycare for my son. The only doctor I could afford in town told me my son's behavioral problems were because I let him walk all over me, and also, boys will be boys. I tried to leave the boyfriend and went back to my parents' house one day. My mother burst into tears because she was so unhappy I was back. It turned out, I had foiled a tryst with her then-boyfriend. I went back to my boyfriend the next day. It was obvious my mother didn't want me to come back. My boyfriend had developed a meth addiction and was spending all the money he made, so I didn't have any cash to make arrangements to live somewhere else because I was paying for my house and I couldn't get him out. In the end, the only way to get rid of him was to change the locks on the doors of the house I had bought with every last penny I had saved because my parents told me to and he told me to. I hated that fucking house. But I made so many excuses and forced myself to be "loyal" and I woke up every goddamned morning and thought, "If there was a god, I'd be dead right now."

The year following the lock-changing, on a day when I was supposed to drive to my parents' house and go with them so they could take my collegiate sister out to eat for her birthday, my mother calmly sprung on me before we went that she had been having an affair. In fact, several affairs. Dad had decided to forgive her. Now, that's all said and done. Let's go out to eat.

We went to play happy-happy family at the sis's house and my parents didn't say anything to her, but she could tell shit was up. On the ride back to her house from lunch, I told her what I had been told. I look back and feel guilty about it. It was her birthday for christsakes. But I was so sick of their fucking secrets and pretending. That whole year afterward mom spent into a nervous breakdown spiral. She came to my house and announced that she was Satan. When I took her to the mental health center, she completely pretended nothing was wrong and refused to talk about why I brought her there. I was crying and shaking. She was calm as a cucumber. They probably thought I needed evaluation. There was nothing they could do. We left and I decided I was never going to try to intervene for her again. I quit letting my son be with her without me there. I started to try to break the chain.

She and dad got a divorce, mostly because dad couldn't handle her mental health issues. I think he really wanted her to stay with him so he could hold her infidelities over her head for perceived power. She went to live with her brother and in short order ended up hospitalized and subsequently had a stroke. Apparently her mental issues were a result of blood clots in her brain. I used to feel guilty for being mad at her because she couldn't help some of her crap, technically. But she got to forget all the shit years and I can't even work through anything with her if I wanted to.

Yeah, that's enough for now. It was time to start, though.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Give Me Something That Will Let Me Get To Sleep

"Washing of the Water" as written by Peter Gabriel
River, river carry me on
Living river carry me on
River, river carry me on
To the place where I come from

So deep, so wide, will you take me on your back for a ride
If I should fall, would you swallow me deep inside

River, show me how to float
I feel like I'm sinking down
Thought that I could get along
But here in this water
My feet won't touch the ground
I need something to turn myself around

Going away, away towards the sea
River deep, can you lift up and carry me
Oh roll on through the heartland
'Til the sun has left the sky
River, river carry me high
'Til the washing of the water make it all alright
Let your waters reach me like she reached me tonight

Letting go, it's so hard
The way it's hurting now
To get this love untied
So tough to stay with thing
'Cause if I follow through
I face what I denied
I get those hooks out of me
And I take out the hooks that I sunk deep in your side
Kill that fear of emptiness, loneliness I hide

River, oh river, river running deep
Bring me something that will let me get to sleep
In the washing of the water will you take it all away
Bring me something to take this pain away

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Truth in Dreams

Another hideous fucking dream. I'm riding, in a semi, no less, with my father driving. Then he says, "I don't feel so good, Bess. You have to drive." This is taking place while driving around and around the block of the little town where I grew up as a child. (If you've ever seen a semi with a trailer on try to make it around one of these blocks, it's sort of painful to watch.) So, with no knowledge how to drive a semi, but managing anyway, he directs me to a portion of the block that sits flat, cuz that would be a good place to park a semi. This is so he can get out and get some fresh air. After he's gotten some fresh air, he gets back in the truck in the driver's seat and continues around the block. When he's on the side of the block where you turn and then you're at our house, someone backs out of their driveway and hits his truck. He gets out and says who knows what to the people, then he tells me he's just going to walk home and I need to drive the truck back home. I get in the truck and get it going slowly (we're talking a steep hill here) and then suddenly it's icy and snowing and I don't know what happened, but I lost control and hit a parked car. I'm so pissed that I fucked this up because I know what's going to happen. I walk back to the house and my husband is there. Then I just know that my dad knew what happened and already told my husband. I asked husband, "Did Dad tell you what happened?" He says, "Yeah, he said you were fucking around and he can't trust you with anything, cuz he told you not to drive." I'm outraged and try to explain to my husband what really happened, but I never got a chance because the dream ended.

Talk about your symbolism.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Wisdom Courtesy of Marilyn Nelson

Not My Bones – Marilyn Nelson

I was not this body,
I was not these bones.
This skeleton was just my
temporary home.
Elementary molecules converged for a breath,
then danced on beyond my individual death.
And I am not my body,
I am not my body.
We are brief incarnations,
we are clouds in clothes.
We are water respirators,
we are how earth knows.
I bore light passed on from an original flame;
while it was in my hands it was called by my name.
But I am not my body,
I am not my body.
You can own a man’s body,
But you can’t own his mind.
That’s like making a bridle
to ride on the wind.
I will tell you one thing, and I’ll tell you true:
Life’s the best thing that can happen to you.
But you are not your body,
you are not your body.
You can own someone’s body,
but the soul runs free.
It roams the night sky’s
mute geometry.
You can murder hope, you can pound faith flat,
but like weeds and wildflowers, they grow right back.
For you are not your body,
you are not your body.
You are not your body,
you are not your bones.
What’s essential about you
is what can’t be owned.
What’s essential in you is your longing to raise
your itty-bitty voice in the cosmic praise.
For you are not your body,
you are not your body.
Well, I woke up this morning just so glad to be free,
glad to be free, glad to be free.
I woke up this morning in restful peace.
For I am not my body,
I am not my body,
glory hallelujah, not my bones,
I am not my bones.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Sacrifice, That Was My Vice

now you don't look at me
with jaded eyes
and don't you accuse me of compromise
because this is the first day of the rest of my life
today I married myself, and I became my own wife
I used to give it away
I used to give it away
I used to live and breathe and bleed for you
every day

now don't you think of me
as the keeper of the flame
because I would much prefer to be labeled insane
oh yes I'd rather be the fool out dancing in the rain
than spending my life in chronic pain
I would rather be the idiot on the corner shouting
I used to care, I used to cry
I used to obsess about it
I used to thi nk it was my destiny
to suffer and sigh
now I just want to be high
naturally high

sacrifice, that was my vice
I used to be that kind, I used to be that nice
I lived to serve until I found my nerve
but now I need what I deserve

I was the one who wanted everything for everyone
I was the one who wanted everything for everyone
but not anymore

so don't you judge me
you bastards of young
you son of a son
you daugher of none
no don't you tell me who and I how I need to be
as long as I'm free I will be so I'll be
my love is too much my love is too strong
and to not love myself can only be wrong
mothers with children put the mask on you first
'cause its getting a whole lot worse

I was the one who wanted everything for everyone
I was the one who wanted everything for everyone
but not anymore

-Johnette Napolitano "Everything for Everyone"

Monday, October 8, 2012


Forgiveness bothers me. Not in general. Just personally. If I did vicious, hurting-other-people shit, I would not expect forgiveness. I would expect to have to suck it up. I wouldn't have the balls to ask for someone to forgive me. I know how to say I'm sorry and take my lumps. Part of showing honest intent is being available to show it.

But I'm a grudge-fucker, too. I remember the little shit and the big shit and the in-between shit. Forgetting would be a divine gift, and I'm no good at it.

What the hell is forgiveness, really? Is it letting people who are harmful have another chance? Another chance to - what? Try to erase the shit they did by proffering awkward acts they maybe don't mean? Making them prove and prove and prove until they're sick of proving and snap again? At what point are the people doing the forgiving then in the debt of the second (third, fourth, fifth)chance people? Harmful means different stuff from person to person, too. If people get along, we get along. If we don't, can we just let go and allow everyone to go down whatever path without further interference? Or do we have to punish ourselves by letting other people "be who they are" at the cost of our own "who we are" and vice versa?

Is forgiveness just not hating someone for causing hurt?

Maybe forgiveness is Karma? Which isn't really all that heart-warming and kind, I guess. But it is nice to decide we don't have to worry about the dickheads and assholes of the world because what they do will come back to 'em in good time.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Another One of Those Days

My attitude sucks shit today.

I cringed at everything all day long and felt mean and bitchy.

The worker who whined because she had work to do.

The lady making excuses for why her stoned husband ran the family car into the back of a semi and she and her kids are hurt.

The loudmouth, clueless little girl making excuses for her POS boyfriend in the can.

The skank and her big stoopid boyfriend who are seeking revenge on an asshole kid by filing false reports about him, and they got caught and defensive about it.

The guy who called to whine about the restrictiveness of the sex offender system on his brother-in-law. Complainer stated he used to be in law enforcement and he has no sympathy for offenders, blah-de-blah, but his BIL really did not do this thing he's about to plead guilty to and this just doesn't seem fair, especially since he might get kicked out of low-income housing. Then, whatever will he do with winter coming on? (Surely he won't be welcome at whatever place he allegedly molested that little girl.)

The bitch-face who decided to change up the system of payment at my kid's daycare, thusly making it far more friggin' difficult than it needs to be. Jesus criminy, the system worked just fucking fine for years before you took over. Proof that change does not always equal good.

The weirdo gawking at me like I grew an extra head while I was stalking back to work after lunch.

This day blows. Its only saving grace is it's almost over and then I can hug my important people for awhile and pretend this day never happened.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Because I'm Scared

I decided to get my permit to carry. This isn't something I wanted to do when the opportunity was first presented . I felt that it was a non-issue for me, and I didn't feel I needed that kind of accessibility. I was pretty down with my Stroam.

Then, last week, I pissed off some guy by calling Human Services to report that he moved in with a female "friend" and her teen daughters. His MO was sexual contact with his wife's teen daughter some years ago, and he was just released from prison less than 2 months ago. Through research, it is alleged the daughters were just perped on by this woman's previous fling.

I'm scared of this guy in a way I'm not usually scared of these shitbags. I'm used to being angry, and I'm really damn good at it, but the scary feeling reminds me of being little, way before I became angry. I'm pissed at this fucking girlfriend of his who seems to be whoring her kids out so she can have a man in her life. I've spoken with this guy a few times, and he did not mince words with me when he said, "Thanks for the nice report to DHS." Then he tried to back-pedal and say, no, no, I'm really grateful someone's looking out for these poor kids. Fuck you, douchebag. I can tell this man is a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, and I know how narcissists get when they've been outed. And I just ruined his first chance at proximity to potential victims since he got out of prison. This is what bothers me, and I can't distance myself from him unless he moves out of our jurisdiction.

I decided I refuse to put myself in a situation where my will could be taken over by someone physically bigger and stronger than me. I will do whatever I need to defend me and my family. If a shit-bag is wanting to take me out badly enough, he or she might have a decent chance if they're smart enough, but not without me inflicting some serious damage on my way out.

Sounds alot like bullshit bravado to me when I go back and re-read it. But I mean it. If a shitbag gives me a good reason to make one less shitbag in the world, and I have to do it, I won't be losing any sleep.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Struggle to the Surface

My 19-year-old has now been accepted for SSI. I helped him file was because his needs are greater than what I can provide since he wants to live semi-independently. He's very excited about the ability to live away from me which I easily understand since at that age I would rather have chewed off my fucking foot than lived with my parents. At his age, I already had a one-year-old child and had jumped into adulthood with both feet. I discovered adulthood to be less of a struggle than what my parents made it out to be. After living 18 years with them, the new hell was preferable. I don't know how my boy will do in the real world. I know I can't buffer him forever. The lessons I learned were such tough ones, and I learned them with an average intellect, although I was socially retarded from my strange upbringing. It only took me a few years to figure some stuff out, and he's like a young teen in some ways.

The living situation he desires isn't really going to be like throwing him to the wolves. He'll have some daily assistance with finances and other things that haven't crossed his radar before. He'll probably have roommates of similar functioning. At least with other people at his life level, I hope he won't have to struggle with people taking advantage of his loneliness and willingness to make friends. I hope.

He's very high-functioning and very odd. His speech is rather disjointed and he'll discuss certain subjects inapropos of situation. He is somewhat like Sheldon Cooper in both good ways and bad. His restlessness and stress radiate from him like heat when he's struggling. He's tall and blonde and grown-up looking, and unless you talk to him, you might not notice his struggle. You might notice that he has a strange gait, I guess, if you saw him walking down the street.

I love him so much. I hope he really knows that. I hope he doesn't ever know how scared I am for him.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Snarky Little Fuckers

Certain people have that uber-critical air about them that nothing can shed them of. The thing you did correctly yesterday is now the very thing you know better than to have done today, in their haughty eye. Well, here's how I feel about this snifter of bu-shwa:

Fuck off. I have learned to accept that I cannot please you whether or not I try, so just take a fucking leap. I see now that this is YOUR problem, and this is what makes you a very difficult person to be around. The things that you want change with the breeze. I wish you had it in you to change, but - Wish in one hand, shit in the other - see which one fills up first! And all I get for wishing is a handful of crap. If you like me - if you loathe me - it doesn't matter to me right now. I am what I am, and what I am  most of all right now is pissed. So there. I know I cannot say this shit to your face without creating a war that is unwinnable, so I will take my strikes right here - where anyone who has had to deal with the likes of  you can commiserate and get in their jabs, too.

Yes, ma'am. If you could just fuck right on off over there, that'd be great. Mmmmmkay?

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Amazing Gift

I just took a spontaneous Sunday afternoon nap and received the greatest unsolicited gift in the form of a dream. I can't explain it well, but it was about flying. It was very realistic and beautiful, just stunning and freeing.

I've had dreams about flying a handful of times before, but never like this.

I wish I could share this dream with everyone who wants good dreams, life, freedom. No fear, just beauty.

For everyone.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Well, Then.

This weekend was my niece's christening, at which I was worried the mom would make a big fat ugly scene. As it turned out, she had plenty of attention from others, which was great for me. I really only spoke to her once for about five minutes, but it was during a time when we were surrounded by others. At that time, she blurted out the laundry list of things she's going through right now, like she knew I had her on a time limit and she had to get everything in. That was about the time I had to go.

There is a big disconnect between the way I thought she would act and the way she actually did. I'm pleasantly, yet uncomfortably, baffled. She didn't pull any croc tears or guilt trips, although that could be explained away by her not wanting the people who were paying attention to her to see it. It could also be explained that she was receiving her required attention from another source and the fact that it wasn't me was a moot point. She didn't try to corner me AT ALL, which was fantastic, but it makes me wonder what the fuck she's up to. Is this a game? Maybe some of her N-traits have left. (Yeah, bullshit.)

I am relieved that baby's christening did not become "All About Granny." It strikes me that during the brief time she had to speak with me, she didn't ask about my eldest son, who did not come with us. She talked non-stop about herself. This was her abridged version of "All About Granny."

The thing is, after all the tears and guilt she's thrown at me in the past, she seemed not-at-all upset about my low-contact. Which is great - I think? I don't want to hurt her. I guess that my not meaning that much to her overall happiness, though, is a dichotomy from how she has presented in recent history.  She found other sources. She's fine.

I'm really not, but I wouldn't be, regardless.

Yesterday, I picked up a book I read some years ago, and I decided to read it again. It's called "The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll" by Jean Nathan. It's a true story about Dare Wright, an incredibly talented woman who created a whole line of children's books a few decades ago. Her mother was a narcissist who stole any chance of a normal life this woman had. It's a sad, fascinating story. When I read this book initially, I didn't recognize her mother as a narcissist. Knowing what I know now, it's more sad, but it's an interesting story. For those of us who escaped, it's something of a "what could have happened" kick-in-the-jaw.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Just Another Day in Paradise

Here's a sample of what I see during my work-week. In walks a family of tweakers. The older two are not much older than me, and they're jerking around and talking so fast it's like listening to a sped-up recording. The younger two, both young adults, are some relatives of these older two, and they're toting along a baby which they're letting one of the older tweakers hold and entertain. Beautiful child surrounded by crazy fuckers. This is hard to see.

This is also hard to see.

This crap is pretty damned common around these parts. Don't do it. You'll probably lose your family and surely all your real friends, your self-respect, some weight, and your teeth.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Theme


And when I wake up in the morning
To feel the daybreak on my face
There's a blood that's flowin'
Through the feeling, with a knife
To open up the sky's veins

Some things will never change
They stand there looking backwards
Half unconscious from the pain
They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is
Something that will never change

And when I shoulda been gone a long time
Laughs and says, I find ways
Just when we're sheltered under paper
The rockets come at us sideways

Some things will never change
They stand there looking backwards
Half unconscious from the pain
They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is

Something that'll never change
Hey, I'm blind
Good, fine
Roll the time
On whose dime

And when I wake up in the morning
To feel the daybreak on my face
There's a blood that's flowin'
Through the ceiling, with a knife
To open up the sky's veins

Some things will never change
They stand there looking backwards
Half unconscious from the pain
They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is
Something that'll never change

Some things will never change
They stand there looking backwards
Half unconscious from the pain
They may seem rearranged
In the backwater swirling, there is
Something that'll never change

-Curtis Matthew Kirkwood

Monday, August 27, 2012

Friday, August 24, 2012

Torture is Not Merely Discomfort

NFather had a daughter from the first of his three marriages. Father and mother married when he was nearing 40 and she was but 19 years old. Up until I was about age 10, my father occasionally mentioned how he had a daughter that died many years ago. I heard this without it having a lot of meaning for me, simply because I never knew her. I never questioned why he would bring her up at the dinner table. (For the record, because of the sit-down meals we were subjected to almost every evening where no one talked except the father when it suited him, I still cannot stand the sound of chewing. HATE IT.) Anyhoo, on one summer day when my best friend happened to be spending the night that night, the mother received a phone call that I could tell left her stunned. I really didn't get it, but I knew something was going on. After the father got home in the evening from his construction job, he came bursting into my room where I was playing Barbies with my best friend and announced, "She's ALIVE! She's ALIVE! Your sister is ALIVE!!" Shit, I knew he wasn't talking about my sister-sister. I just knew exactly what he was talking about, in testament to his setting this situation up. I think I just said okay and looked at my friend and shrugged, and we went back to playing Barbies. I can't imagine what she must have really thought about the situation.

As mother told me later, when I was not her daughter but her closest walking diary, she confronted the father about this information. As in, "You told me your daughter and ex-wife died!" His response to her: "If you don't believe me, go to hell." WHAT?? WHATTHEFUCK!! That goddamned comeback doesn't even make sense. And what did the mother do? Pretend not to be upset about it to him. She came and dumped it on me.

In the weeks to come, the father made arrangements to meet with this child of his that he abandoned. Because he was too fucking cheap to rent a hotel to visit his daughter who he basically abandoned as a child, a daughter who he told that her mother told him was dead, we stayed in this sister's house. Remember, this is someone only my father had ever met, and that was when she was a baby, when he abandoned her mother and her because her mother wanted to divorce. It was awkward, truly, what with him expecting her to idolize him and believe every fucking word out of his mouth, and with her wanting this fairy-tale that I'm sure any child in her situation might well have dreamed about her whole life. As it turned out, my father had abandoned that baby girl to her alcoholic mother because his pride was hurt, and he couldn't be bothered to pay child support or even want to visit her during her then-almost-30-year life span. And he expected her to be grateful to him for his showing gratitude that she was alive.

Many years have passed since this happened. As it turns out, older sister is a total fucking mess who bragged to me when I was a kid that her husband was a member of the Klan, and who has exhibited her own extremely narcissistic and childish behavior in the brief contact I've ever had with her. I have no desire to know her better than I already know her, and I never want a relationship with her. I attempted that once. I did my time with the father. Never gonna fucking happen.

Is she a hot mess because her father was such a douche-bag asshole? That might be part of it. But lots of us have alot of shit going on in our heads, and we didn't end up like her, either. Life is a mind-fuck for anyone who has a narcissist in their life, and I'll bet her life was hell.

I work in a courthouse, and when the county recorder came to me and told me the older sister was seeking a copy of the father's death record shortly after his death (which my real sister and I tried to notify her about at the time, which notification she finally responded to via e-mail with some bullshit story that her husband had rocky mountain spotted fever and she just wasn't able to get back to us), which I would have gladly given her if she had been willing to ask like a normal person, and that my sister was telling her on the phone that I had kept her away from our father and not told her about his death (not knowing that the recorder knows me or that I work in that courthouse). Really, call the county fucking recorder and work that into a long and breathless tale of needing a fucking death certificate, when, you know, asking for one would do just as well.

So Much the Same

I see lots of people every day and am managing normal and healthy relationships now that I see things more clearly than I used to, but sometimes life is so fucking lonely. I love to be alone most of the time, and I can't tell if this is just part of me or if I trained myself so well to dislike being around others because of being almost entirely in the presence of my parents during my formative years. Until I discovered blogging, I don't think I grasped how lonely I was. All of a sudden, I'm realizing how many of us have similar stories. The people who I'm friendly with really don't know my story because I don't want them to. I don't think they would believe the story in its entirety because it sounds crazy and it's fucked up. So I get to put on my human face and deal with the world and all the people in my world and hide this part of me. Christ, there's so many of us that do this and - ? Well, does everyone feel this lonely and just hide themselves?

This belongs to Shel Silverstein. His drawing is poignant in its simplicity and in tandem with his words.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Oh, Thank You, Barenaked Ladies


Alcohol, my permanent accessory
Alcohol, a party-time necessity
Alchool, alternative to feeling like yourself
O Alcohol, I still drink to your health

I love you more than I did the week before
I discovered alcohol

Forget the caffe latte,
screw the raspberry iced tea
A Malibu and Coke for you, a G&T for me
Alcohol, Your songs resolve like
my life never will
When someone else is picking up the bill

I love you more than I did the week before
I discovered alcohol
O Alcohol, would you please forgive me?
For while I cannot love myself
I'll use something else

I thought that Alcohol was just for those with
nothing else to do
I thought that drinking just to get drunk
was a waste of precious booze
But now I know that there's a time
and there's a place where I can choose
To walk the fine line between
self-control and self-abuse

I love you more than I did the week before
I discovered alcohol
Would you please ignore that you
found me on the floor
Trying on your camisole?
O Alcohol, would you please forgive me?
For while I cannot love myself
I'll use something else

Would you please forgive me?
Would you please forgive me?
By Steven Page, Stephen Duffy
THIS POST IS NOT MEANT TO BE DEPRESSING OR SAD. Right now, I'm singing the praises of the numbing I can experience legally after I get off work in the evening. I don't think I've crossed the line to alcoholic, although I'm flirting pretty hard-core right now. For reasons I suspect, I've started scrubbing the shit out of everything and throwing out/giving away things I can't use (that don't belong to the husband) and enjoying the benefits of sipping/guzzling. About a year ago is when I was given the news that my father had a round-about expiration date, and this is how I got when he died. I keep thinking, "What the fuck? He made my life hell. He was a douchebag who told terrible lies to anyone who would listen. I can't possibly be MOURNING." But, yeah, I guess I am. This must be how I mourn someone who didn't deserve my tears.
There's only one thing Oprah Winfrey said that's stuck with me: Forgiveness is realizing the past can't be changed. (Something to that effect, anyhow.) If this is a true definition, that's why I can't forgive. I'm so fucking ANGRY. I will never, ever have a hope of my father realizing or understanding how I felt about all the emotional abuse he put us through. Through the mother's medical problems, she also can't remember a large chunk of time during my adolescence into young adulthood, back when she slept with anything that moved and refused to grow a pair and just leave the awful man she didn't love because she didn't have to support herself. Thusly, even if I were to give it the old college try, she can also fall back on the reason (maybe excuse) that she can't remember what I'm talking about. How the fuck did she get that easy out??? Even if there was something she did remember, she can fake out, because there's not a single goddamn thing I can call her on from that era when much of the damage between us was done. There's no amount of therapy that can remedy that.
I have this craving to move far away and start fresh, even though it would be alot of work. But how attractive is this: I'm not scared of hard work. I can scrub the fuck out of a toilet. I'm not scared too badly of being poor. I've been there before when I lived in a hovel that my neighbor bought from me just so he could tear it down and have a big purty yard. I could start again. Yeah. But the husband doesn't really want that, and I don't want to uproot my little kid and be far away from my big kid. So I'll just dream. And I'll probably drink some, too.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Learning to Fly

Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
Flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone, my senses reel
Fatal attraction that's holding me fast
Now, can't escape this irresistible grasp
Can't keep my eyes from the circling sky
Tongue-tied and twisted; just an earth-bound misfit, I
Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings, I thought I thought of everything
No navigator to find my way home
Unladen, empty, and turned to stone
A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition: grounded - determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted; just an earth-bound misfit, I
Above the planet on a wing and a prayer,
My grubby halo, a vapour trail in the empty air,
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye
A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night
There's no sensation to compare with this
Suspended animation - a state of bliss
Can't keep my mind from the circling sky
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I

Written by Gilmour, Moore, Ezrin, Carin

Thursday, August 9, 2012

How 'Bout No

Yeah, I haven't called my mother back, and I decided I will talk to my sister when I see her in a couple of weeks for a seminar. I went to bed the other night and prayed to something I might believe in to help me find answers to what the best thing to do is. Then I got it - the answer had to come from me. So when I got up the next morning, I erased the message without listening. Then, that evening, as my husband was listening to the rock station in the kitchen, and Crazy Train came on, I stiffened up and immediately felt like I was going to be sick. Then I realized, it's the fucking radio, it's not the ringtone. My reaction reaffirmed to me that I did the right thing.

I catch myself craving a drink more regularly again. I didn't drink much for the most part this year, mostly because I jumped off the high board at a Christmas party and had a hangover that caused me to believe I was going to die. But, damn, it seems to numb the anger for me. Or it numbs something that I'm not quite aware of yet. I know I've got to deal with this shit, and I guess I'm still scared that no contact is going to cause more problems than it will good. All I know is that I haven't once missed talking to the mother since the last time I spoke with her, and that's telling me something.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

That Sick, Sinking Feeling

The mother just tried to call me yesterday, right at 5 p.m., an odd time for her to try to call. She left a voice mail. The minute my phone started playing Crazy Train, I realized it was her and my stomach dropped. I haven't listened to the voice mail, and I really want to just delete it, but I know I'll have to see her at my niece's christening in less than a month, and I wonder if I should listen just to get an idea of what I'm in for. Cuz I know, it'll be all about mother. She'll probably be bawling at the christening, make a big fucking scene, and make the whole thing less about my precious niece. Fuck. Fuck. I don't want to be the reason for the drama there. I love my sis & her family. I'm definitely going to the christening; this is really important to them. Maybe I call my sister & ask her what her opinion is on this? I know that my sister is familiar with mother's tactics and that mother has pulled them on her. But sis is alot more straightforward and stronger when it comes down to the bullshit. Fuck. What to do? How to handle?

Friday, July 27, 2012

Like Sands Through the Hourglass (Corny, But True)

I've just realized that I've not had contact with my mother since about the last week of May. Two months, and I feel just fine about this no-contact stuff. She phone-bombed me the first two or three weeks and still tries to call maybe once a week, and I still don't answer. I feel GOOD in this respect. I feel like I'm earning some of myself back. I don't have to have fakey conversations about shit that only matters to her, and I don't have to polish myself up to be an acceptable conversation receptacle. I'm not having to goody-goody up to her level to have a peaceful talk. I'm not whoring myself out for acceptance with her. This is like going a really long time being constipated, and now things are moving again (please note the apt reference to shit).

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

He Was a Diamond and Crazy as Hell

"Shine On You Crazy Diamond (I-V)"

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Written by Roger Waters, Richard Wright, and David Gilmour

I love this song mostly for its instrumentals, and when I paid attention to the lyrics it took on new meaning.

Monday, July 23, 2012

The Dreams and the Nightmares

The dreams lately have been really bad. I've always had very vivid, bloody, grotesque dreams, ever since I can remember, and I can remember early on, from about the age of three. I used to think they were signs that I was insane, but now I suppose they come directly from the source of my supposed insanity. Usually my mother and father are key figures in these dreams. Lately in the dreams I'm being forced to put my rotting father in his grave, and my mother is tagging along with me, speaking nonsense and being blank.

After I watched my father die, I lost some of my fears. Death was scary. I lied to my family members and told them he went peacefully, because why tell them how bad it was except to create more fears for them. The gasping, the gasping was really scary. The two nurses that were there with me and him at the end were very supportive and calm, and they helped me hold my shit together. In that moment of his death, though, I was a little girl and he was daddy. Maybe that was worse than the gasping.

I'm no longer scared of ghosts, though. The things that go bump in the night always terrified me when I was young, and now I can't really envision them scaring me more than watching my father die. The dreams are really bad, though. I try not to be scared of them, because how can I do anything but endure them? Sometimes, I wake up and feel like I'm walking in a fugue until the fog of the dream subsides. Is this what insanity is, to accept that when I close my eyes at night I will see terrible things?

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Scratching the Surface and Causing an Eruption

I've been growing my hair out for about a year. It seems to like to grow alot, although it's unruly and wavy. Oddly, no gray hair that's noticeable to others. At one point, I felt like coloring it gray, because I felt like I had earned it.

I prefer my hair short, really, but I was getting a little bored, and I know my spouse likes how I look with my hair longer, so I thought I'd give it a try. Growing it out hasn't been as painful as it should have been. I did all the right things - trim it up every 5-6 weeks, keep it all neat and tidy. Now that it's chin-length, right where I thought I wanted it, now it's very difficult. Because every goddamn time I look in the mirror, I see the evil grandmother, and then I see my own mother. I look like people I hate to be reminded of. This is a kick in the head.

I tell the spouse last night that I think the hair is going to have to go and why. He looked a little sad, and he said, "I don't know why you think you look like her." He meant the evil grandmother, because I didn't say I saw my mother in the mirror then. I was upset that he doesn't get it and left the room before having a snit with a perfectly well-meant comment. But he never met the grandmother, and he doesn't really know. His family has its fucked-up aspects, but he has lovable parents and had lovable grandparents, and I just don't think he can imagine how I feel about this.

Now I wish I had made an appointment to get it cut and not given him a chance to put his two cents down. Now I'll feel guilty when I cut my hair, because he likes it, and I gave him another chance to verbalize that he doesn't understand why I don't want to keep it. I don't want him to feel like it's personal to him when I cut my hair. And now I'm really pissed because it's my head and my hair and I have to live with it. Even though he never gave me a guilt trip about the hair, even though I'm the one that made the choice to grow it out.

I am fucked up over goddamn hair.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

You Don't Say

When I was a kid, maybe 7, 8, 9 years old or so, my father told me he had killed someone. He told me one evening when we were sitting together in the kitchen and neither my mother or my sister were in the room. He said it like he was confessing a deep, dark secret to an old drinking buddy.

All I could do was sit there and listen. I loved him a lot then. He said that he had shot somebody in another state but that I could never tell anyone because he was afraid that someone would come and hurt us. He intimated mob connections.

Some time later, I went to my mother and told her that my father had told me this. She just gave me a rather mean look, but she didn't seem to know what to say. Then, jealously, or maybe disbelievingly, "He's never told me that." She finally went on to aver that he shouldn't be saying things like that to me, and that was that as far as she was concerned. She didn't want to deal with shit like protecting her kids from being told these horrible things.

After a year or two passed, he told me a different version of the story, or perhaps it was a completely different story. Because I was used to his word being law, I never mentioned anything to him about his prior version. To question him was unheard of because then I would be awful, a terrible little girl to whom he would say, apparently devastated, "Don't you believe your Daddy?"

This new version had him as a truck driver in another, vague, state. A man crawled up on his truck when he was in a parking lot and opened the door and said to him, "You know what I want." My father told me he shot him in the head and he fell off the truck into a ditch, and then apparently my father left the scene. I could never tell anyone because, "Daddy would get in lots of trouble."

As time went on, about three decades down the road, I came to the realization that my father was a pathological liar. The bastard would lie for sheer sport. For most of my life, I believed he had done these terrible things. Perhaps he did. He never gave me any indication of where these things had allegedly taken place. I have come to believe that probably these things he told me were lies like the rest of his lies, and I questioned why a grown man would put any child, let alone the little girl he pretended to love, through the belief of and worry about such information.

Maybe if I had any sort of concrete information, any sort of time frame or whereabouts, I could contact law enforcement to let them know what he had told me. But, what, I go to them and say, "My father, who is now dead, told me something 25 years ago about something bad he did. I'm not really sure it's true. No, I don't know where. No, I don't know who he did it to. He lied alot, almost daily, really. Do you feel like a wild goose chase?" But without information law enforcement would need, I am powerless. What if that fucker really did do those things? If that information could go toward serving a greater purpose, like solving something as yet unsolved, I would love to try, to contact law enforcement, to, if nothing else, prove to myself yet again what a miserable liar he was, and that would be the best case scenario.

By the bye, reading Q1605's blog helped me purge, vomit this information into this venue. It is a sickness I need to rid myself of, this fucking memory that I am helpless to use to any positive purpose. Thanks Q.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Aloneness is Goodness

Got a rare Day Away today. It wasn't really all that away, but far enough that I didn't have to worry if the spouse was going to achieve something today, or if the big kid was going to come and tell me that he's hearing voices, or if the little one was going to get grouchy because we're not doing the very thing he's got on his list.

Shame on me for bitching about the good part of my life, but here, relatively anonymously, I feel freer to do so.

We've got alot of projects going at home, most of which have been started and abandoned by the spouse. I am without knowledge on how to proceed with them, or I'd get the shit done. We've got a bathroom that's got a squishy floor because I didn't take the reins and have the toilet re-seated by someone, cuz that's something the spouse said he could do/would do. We've got gutters falling down and a nasty soffit because I arranged to get them fixed and my spouse bitched about how they wouldn't do the soffit the way he wanted it, so I acceded to his wish to do it himself. Has this happened yet? Three guesses, and the first two don't count. We have back yard with a pile of sand in a staked-out space for a patio. There's not enough sand to cover the area (if it were spread out, which it's not). The area has been staked for probably two months. Not a shitting thing has happened with it. This pile of sand, though I haven't picked through it because it pisses me fucking off every time I look at it, is probably a litterbox for multiple area cats/raccoons.

In every other respect, my spouse is a good person. Not a cheater, not a beater, has a job, good dad, easy to talk to. But he's so goddamn lazy. And every time I try to get shit (by shit, I mean big shit) done, he freaks out because he has an aversion to getting shit done.

Gah. Fuck it. I'm having a vodka tonic.

Thursday, July 12, 2012


I'm tired of being so angry, yet I seem helpless to stop myself. I've tried meditation, counseling, aromatherapy, acupuncture, medication, readings from the Dalai Lama, religious research, physical activity, extra sleep, less sleep, alcohol, spiritual journeying, shopping therapy, reflexology, seclusion, speaking my mind, zipping my lips, hugging on animals, hanging out with positive influences, gratitudinous thinking, supportive brassieres, reading, writing, avoiding arithmetic. Please help me think of something new to try. I don't know if I'm asking you or a god-like figure that may or may not exist. I'm exhausted. Maybe shock therapy?

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Take No For An Answer

You know, I do admire people with gumption and tenacity right up until they prove their lack of respect for the boundaries of others. Sometimes I think it's because they're not all that smart and lack the ability to tell when they've crossed the line. Those are head-shakers, but they're easier to forgive than the smart ones who just don't give a shit about who they might be inconveniencing with their impossible requests and subsequent bitch-fits.

Really, I do hope that being a rude prick is going to become so overblown that it falls out of favor with the group that feels it's their right to get what they want no matter the situation. By all means, state your case as succinctly as possible, and state what you hope the outcome will be. If you can be accommodated, then we are all happy. If you cannot be accommodated, get over it or die mad.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

And I am the Casaba Melon to Her Butcher Knife...

Psycho Mom has left multiple messages on my phone today while I was at my in-laws' family function. OMG, I'm not answering the phone for five frickin' hours, what could be wrong?? Like Sheryl says, "If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone." A specific cliche comes to mind: How can I miss you when you won't go away? Also: If an adult daughter falls to the ground and noone's around, does she make a sound? Okay, maybe that's a little sculpted to the situation. Seriously, no good would have come to me from answering any of her calls today. She would've told me every bit of bad fucking news she could think of, from someone's ingrown toenail to a guy that stabbed his children in his back yard to someone else's brain cancer, and then she would've reminded me what a martyr she is for befriending a neighborhood girl whose father had a recent standoff with the po-po because he's crazy. That poor girl does need friends, real ones, not older ladies who love to take someone else's drama and make it their own. Mother is just not happy unless she's got the inside scoop on every hot mess in town. If I had talked to her, I would've hung up and realized the misery she omits opens up the door to my own demon, depression, and then I would have to talk myself off that ridiculous and preventable ledge. I fancy I can hear my phone playing "Crazy Train" (her special ringtone) right now and I am determined not to answer it. Her ringtone used to be the "Debbie Downer" song, but it wasn't loud enough and I could never hear it. I think I'll change it back to Debbie Downer.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Isn't It Odd

I work in a field which requires me to deal with liars on a frequent basis. Before I worked in this field, I truly was incredibly naive, although I never would have thought myself so. My Bullshit Radar was undeveloped. Now it's fully developed, and it can be a really useful tool. But it leads me to want to call bullshit, usually at work (where I hear bullshit the most), and I'm supposed to be professional, so it really is becoming a professional liability. How do I make myself less passionate about stupidity? Gah.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Avoiding...or Protecting?

As a 37-year-old, I wish I had reached that point in my life where it's easier to confront a situation and move on. This has always been my downfall with my parents.

My mother called early in the week the week before to ask if I would bring my 19 year old son to her house last weekend for his birthday. She knows how he (who is on the autism spectrum) feels about long car rides, but this is more about her and what she would like. Instead of telling her no, I told her I would not be up on Memorial Day, but we would see about the following weekend, but I already knew the answer for that weekend was also no.

Then, on Friday night, she called and let the land line phone ring a ridiculous number of times before hanging up. It's my personal belief that if someone cannot get to the phone in four rings, it's polite to hang up and call back later. If someone needs 26 rings to get to the phone, they will probably tell someone outright. Anyway, I felt harassed and annoyed, because this sort of phone shit is pretty commonplace for her.

Instead of calling her back and talking to her like an adult and telling her that we weren't coming and just facing up to her petulant pouting, I avoided her like the plague. I didn't answer my phone Saturday, either, and I felt uncomfortable with the little icon on my phone that showed I had a voicemail message, so I entered my voicemail and deleted it without listening to it. She hasn't attempted to call this week at all, which is a relief, and a burden on my guilty conscience.

The adult in me tells me that I must do what I need to do to preserve my sanity. The child in me hears my mother weeping and asking, like a 4-year-old, "Are you mad at me?" The shit of it is, she is like a child, if not quite as young as a 4-year-old. She never grew up. She just stagnated and now I'm afraid of having to parent her like I had to parent my now-deceased father.

She's not a bad person. In fact, she's probably much easier to deal with if you're not related to her. She's just very self-centered. I, on a certain level, feel that it's better if I don't talk to her if I'm going to be annoyed and have a melt-down on her. But, I could just be a coward. I waffle on the issue. On pretty much everything regarding my dysfunctional parents, I ride the fence like a chicken, try to avoid unnecessary drama (which is actually unavoidable), and hide like the rodeo clown when they come charging at me.

But, I know what I truly think. I just can't bring myself to verbalize it to mother. Because hurting her would make me feel like shit. Because when someone hurts her, she soaks it up like a sponge and becomes a martyr and goes to her church and tells everybody and their dog who will listen to her about her child who needs praying for. Because I don't want to really give back to her what she did to me and my sister, intentionally or not, because two wrongs are not one right.

Therapy in the past dealt mostly with my father. I think I need to make another appointment.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Enable...Create an Asshole Today!!!

Sure, some people are assholes without being enabled. These are your "natural-born" assholes and come by it honestly. But there are lots of perfectly good people born out there every day who are allowed to turn into jerkwads by the people surrounding them. If your kid steals shit and you scream at the cops when they bring your kid in with proof he's guilty, you are telling your kid that it's ok to be a shitbag, as long as you don't get caught by people who can punish them.

My father was one of those natural-borns that married an enabler and got worse. If your spouse cheats on you and you tell them you're going to leave them, then let them give you puppy-dog eyes and talk you into making them dinner and rubbing their feet, you are telling them it's really ok to fuck you over, because you're still going to do all the things they want you to. If your drama-queen mama has a shit-fit until you do the holidays her way, and then you do the holidays her way, you are rewarding her for infantile behavior. And if your kids watch you enable other people, they will probably grow up to enable someone else. You are telling them it's ok to let people walk on you IF YOU LOVE THEM.

The truth is, when you love someone, it's ok to not cave at their ridiculousness that hurts you. If you're a parent, you're doing your child a disservice by enabling them right into a drug- and crime-riddled life wherein they live in your basement when they're not in jail and you hide their weed and stolen goods in your garage so the cops won't take your baby to jail.

Pull your heads out, folks. Most people who act like assholes do it because they are allowed to.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Friggin' Dumbasses

So there's a puke/pukes that run around this little town lately, and they apparently have formed a fabulous street gang called the "Hobos." That'd be sort of exciting in a gangland kind of way except there's no badass to this thing. Puke(s) just sneak around town after dark tagging personal property with the word "Hobo." Also, they throw slushies at cars and take anything that's easy for them to carry or ride. Man, that's annoying. Why can't you be the cool sort of gang that does good shit, like Robin Hood and his tights bros, or Batman and Robin? Why do bad stuff when you're bored. Do good stuff instead. See how easy I've made it? I've got it all figured out, Ho-bro. So quit being dicks. Has anyone told you about Karma? Some day maybe you'll pull your heads out of your asses far enough to actually have something that you worked for and sorta like...and some douchey boy-band with a chip on its shoulder will throw beer cans at your humble abode and steal your fabulous Dollar Store lawn ornament and smash it, along with your heart, against your '88 Cutlass Ciera. You'll see.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012


Anyone had any positive health experiences from taking organic apple cider vinegar or organic blackstrap molasses? Just started taking this stuff, primarily because I'd read a little about it on while I was searching for stuff to make it possible to get through "that time of the month" without taking the frickin' pill. So far, I'm digging on how I feel, and I've only been taking both for less than a week. I'm taking the molasses in a tablespoon plain (which I can tolerate), and I'm taking the ACV twice a day, a teaspoon at a time, in a glass of cold iced tea, which I'm acclimating to.

Maiden Journey

Welcome to my foray into this venue. This blog is not necessarily meant for pleasantries; on the contrary, its main purpose is to blow off steam, and maybe, in the process, give comfort to others that they aren't alone on this wacky-ass journey. Crazy narcissistic parents? Got one/had one. Job where you have to laugh or go crazy? Si, senor. I want to SHARE to make the madness more tolerable. This being said, this is my blog. So, while I encourage y'all to share if it makes you feel better, keep this in mind: if you don't like what you see here, go somewhere else. If you bring me or others down by being an asshole, take it elsewhere. I delete. Enjoy!