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Monday, September 26, 2016

A Modern Conversation between Mother and Daughter

 15 years ago I laid on the cheap shag carpet floor of a shitty apartment  in a drugged induced haze while a man whose name and face I can still recall in detail, stole what little self respect I had escaped puberty with.  After he had done the same to my friend.

15 years ago my shot guzzling, drug addled teen self who was barely legal decided to down a handful of Ecstasy with a beer at a party only to wake 48 hours later with a slight recollection of that night and an acidic aftertaste of the GHB I was duped into consuming.

15 years ago my cold ass cheeks clung to a scratchy table following a long and spotty ER visit, a slew of blood tests, two disgusted and bored police officers' questions and 24 hours on a friend's couch sleeping away the ugliness and shame of that moment.

15 years later I can still recall this man's name, face and carpet in detail.

Before the age of 19 I had experienced sexual assault at the hands of no less than 3 people, but nothing stays with me today like that night.  Perhaps it was the guilt and responsibility I take for putting myself in that kind of situation.

Or perhaps it's the fact that night pales in comparison to other brutal tales I have that didn't involve a drunken and stoned state of mind.  And somehow that is what bothers me. The not remembering everything, the fear of the parts that are unknown.

Most of the time. Until it comes to the surface.

Because the trauma of that encounter and night were delayed for months to come...the heightened need to snort, fuck and drink my way to an early death might have been a residual side effect, but the resulting conclusion is still the same.

I never wanted to experience that again. And I was fortunate I haven't.

The only reason I am reminded of that night 15 years ago is the silence filling my home and the fact that it's cause is slowly eating its way into our lives causing irrevocable damage.  The same way that man's face and name did.

Only the face and name that haunts me now is my daughter's father.

As today blurs into tomorrow amid the humid scorching heat of September, the lull in noise and humming in the normal whirlwind of my home has me frightened....because it means my daughter is slipping further and further away from me.

For the last 6 years we've trooped through a revolving door of doctors', psychiatrists, mental health professionals and specialists for a slew of behaviors that we attributed to everything from mercury in the water to a messy divorce and ensuing custody battle to bad genetics and latent bipolar disorder.

Rage that left our walls filled with holes and our hearts filled with despair.  Raw and furious slits and fingernail picked holes crisscrossing their way down her arms, her restless nights spent tossing and turning, my questions met with resounding doors slamming in protest.

The endless pills and therapy sessions pushed her further and further into an soul sucking abyss and I floundered to find the cause of her anger, depression and self loathing.

Perhaps it was her lack of snorting, fucking or drinking her way into an early death, but the signs were there and somehow I missed them.

When she finally broke her silence all these years later,  17 months ago to be exact, the world as we knew it imploded, she imploded and the wreckage left behind isn't any closer to helping her heal.

Huddled on a couch, the truth spilled out of her to the only person she truly trusted at the time-her therapist.   And that knowledge is a burden I will carry with me to the day I die.  That we had reached such a point in our relationship that she couldn't trust me...didn't want to....that I allowed her to shut me out until we didn't have a relationship at all.

The aftermath included spontaneous CAC visits, countless interviews, exams and more and more space building between us.

While the stress of harboring this secret for so long was now gone, the relief I thought she would feel was short lived.

What followed was the CPS letter confirming their belief that the crime had occurred as well as the division and alienation of extended family, the whispers and stares and resentment and misunderstanding that she was forced to relive over and over.

He had the opportunity to violate her over and over through the legal process and I couldn't stop him.

Just like I failed to the first time.

And then the phone call informing us that there would be no end. No closure, no responsibility, no justice would be found.

To say it was and has been horrific is an understatement.

And while he sleeps comfortably in his bed, in his new home with his new wife, his new children, she lays in the dark, the wave of fear, anxiety and panic pulling her under, making it unbearable and impossible for her to breathe.

17 months ago I made her a promise that she would have closure, that the day would come when she no longer had trouble sleeping, that this one thing didn't define her and the day would come when she could reclaim herself, that the shame is his, not hers, that she would never have to think of him again.

I made a promise I broke the moment the words left my mouth because while she has no contact with him, she still sees his face over and over....and what's worse in when she screams at me in anguish because she can't escape it because it's staring back at her in the mirror.

I made a promise I haven't been able to keep because the judicial system feels that due to the lack of witnesses and cloud of doubt brought on by the tumultuous court history he and I have due to the numerous court filings I pursued to ensure her safety and well-being due to his failure as a parent and human being nothing can be done.

How do I tell her that the court failed her?

That I failed her?

How do I tell her that the scars may never heal and her heart and mind might be forever broken?  Especially in a society when rapists receive 3 month jail sentences due to the color of their skin and the wad of bills lining their parents pockets.  When there is an overwhelming burden of evidence you get a slap on the wrist and when time has passed and it isn't blatantly  glaring back at them, no one deems it worth pursuing.

While the court and her father can act like it never happened, the reality that it did will continue to resonate in every aspect of her life.

That will haunt her for the rest of her life.

Always close to the surface. Always in detail.  Always his face.

The thought that I have to go home and have this discussion with my daughter sickens me and leaves me hoping I don't fail her again.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Spreading my Wings-Maxi Sized

Life has caught up with me again....and this time she hit me right in the feels. I'd say in the vagina, but since my surgery, I'm left wondering if I even have one of those.  All joking aside with the roller coaster of estrogen patches, binders/girdles and no sex for a total of 8 months, I still feel broken.

Broken in a don't-touch-me sort of way. Broken in a I-don't-know-what-I-am-doing sort of way. Broken in a everything-I-touch-turns-to-shit sort of way.  Broken in a I-cry-for-no-reason-and-yet-those-reasons-crush-me sort of way.

All the things I thought I could fix...well, they're still lingering. sort of.

There is the lingering regret of babies which is at the forefront of everything at the moment.

But not in the way that makes me run down the street to Texas Women's Pavilion, receipt in one hand, and a jar in the other.  Or vacuum pack and Igloo to make sure my uterus gets packed on ice.

No, it is more of a quiet, solemn flutter in my chest, like a bird or butterfly's wings flitting across my heart, and that deep, crippling sadness is no longer so unbearable.  I don't know if it's because I will it away because the thought of another prescription for Lexapro, Zoloft, Wellbutrin or whatever sour pill isn't crowding my medicine cabinet making its way into my hands is repulsive.

Or maybe it's the futility in lamenting the extinction of the what-if's with the big H.

Or maybe it's the closure I gained in the past month on my hiatus of conscious grieving.   I'd like to think it's this that keeps me sleeping more than 2 hours a night for the first time in over two years.

Said closure came in the form of one of the most defining moments of my life by far.  Save from childbirth, seeing my name in print for the first time, the day Hubs No. 2  grabbed my hand in public during our courtship and the day I realized my mother was one of my best friends.

Save for those few instances, I have never felt more alive, more aware, more present than the following moment.

That moment. The moment.  It came in the form of Listen To Your Mother: Southeast Texas (LTYM SETX) 2016.  For those of you who aren't familiar it's a national production of performances on the topic of motherhood. Think Vagina Monologues, but moms being the center of the pieces.

An email sent via my critique group with information piqued my attention shortly before the H when I was in a whirlwind of grandiose posturing, acting brave and hopeful busily filling my days with things to distract from the approaching final day. To-Do's (and Don't's), life plans and weight goals followed as I planned the "new beginning" I was certain would come.

And so on a lark I hit submit and added my name to a list of people auditioning.   I put it in the far recesses of my mind because I had 5 weeks before auditioning day to determine what I had to say.

Can you imagine ME not having anything to say? Nah, neither did I.  Honestly, it was more a matter of deciding what can I read that doesn't drop the F bomb too many times? Or if sexual dysfunction was an American phenomena or just my own private Hell?

Besides-it left me more than enough time to decide whether I was too chicken shit to make the drive.

With a slew of last minute appointments, the agonizing task of picking which less elastic blown granny panties to pack and the trek to the hospital, I forgot about that day. That drive.

Until I received the email reminder.  As I laid enveloped in my scratchy hospital issued sheets, food court Jell-O jiggling on the tray and my morphine drip filling the silence with its double time ploop, I panicked.

But not fast enough to delete said email before my mother reached over and snatched my phone away.

A dozen questions proceeded to make their way, garbled and fuzzy, into my brain.  After much buzzing and one more pump of the morphine via my trigger finger, I answered.   Brushing it off, I informed her I wasn't making the drive because no one wanted to hear what I had to say.

I believe if it weren't for the IV's, nurse and cannulas she would have slapped me silly.  However, given how medically high I already was I found that to be an impossible feat. Mustering a bravery I can only attribute to the Class C narcotics coursing through my veins, I informed her that there was no way I was showing up for that audition. Especially brave enough to wave my rainbow Popsicle in her face to emphasize my point.

I don't recall everything she said because she is a woman of many words, and most colorful at that, but I did catch how special she believed I was. And she insisted others would too.

And how achingly disappointed she would be in me if I failed to follow-through. In a quiet voice while looking down at her lap.  She might have even mustered a tear.

You know how moms are. And damned if it didn't work.

Well...long after the Popsicle melted, cannulas came out, and I was home with the nagging fear of disappointing my mother, I stood on the lawn, keys in hand and I took a deep breath.

 I was you know... Chicken shit.  But not enough to prevent me from climbing behind the wheel.

Even with stopping twice due to my impressive gastro pyrotechnics.

So I mustered all my strength and wrapped my girdle tight, and off I was to Beaumont and what I thought for sure would be my doom.  Or shameful rejection. Complete with sneers, eye rolling and slamming door. wasn't.  What started as soft spoken words trailing into a brightly lit room with four strangers turned into the strong baritone bellowing from my gut to an audience alongside this little extension of a family.

Following my piece, and subsequent bawling in front of four kind and patient people, I had a whole 24 hours to breath in relief and laugh that at the absurdity of it all.

Until I heard that familiar ding come the next afternoon, and there I was officially a member of the 2016 cast.

The following weeks brought about meetings, rehearsals peppered with salty tears and cracking laughter.   I met some of the most extraordinary people, and listened , enthralled at every word as they shared pieces of their souls with me.

Wounded, some mended, others still healing, and for the first time in months I felt...something other than anger, grief or pity.  Something other than hate, spite and envy.  I felt...I felt something I cannot describe even now.

Except closure.  As I stood this past Saturday night and looked down to see my husband patiently and eagerly waiting to hear my words, I knew no matter the outcome that the flutter across my heart was just that.  A flutter. No crushing weight. No suffocating gasps, no undertow of grief pulling me further and further away from everyone else.

That this stop on my journey was divine destiny.  These people, this moment was needed for me to quiet that lingering regret.  To remind me of the possibilities I have ignored of living life.

Most of all it reminded me of two things:

I am still broken.  I will probably always be broken. Maybe not in a thousand pieces like before, but maybe precariously held together with Super Glue, zip ties and duct tape, praying it stands the test of time.

Mending.  And I don't know how long it will take. And I don't know if the flutter may one day turn into a beating so forceful I am thrown down that spiraling hole I have managed to crawl out of.

But today I can silence it. Today my soul isn't scattered into pieces on the floor.

Today is enough.

That I am not alone.  This part is crucial. This part right here is what has allowed me to sleep peacefully since the day I stepped into a room with those twelve others.  It's what sustained me to make the drive back and forth.  And this gives me hope.

It gives me strength.   That many of us remain broken, many of us are in various states of "repair" as we attempt to navigate past moments filled with anger, heartache, trauma, loss and regret.

And most of us never recover.

I don't know if next week, year or tomorrow the floor will drop out and I'll be back to square one.

What I do know is the flutter I once felt in my womb I now feel in my breast.

Tiny wings beating and fluttering in my ribs, I like to think it's hope. Or sanity. Struggling to burst free, but content to stay for just one more day.

All because of twelve strangers and the courage to make that drive.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015


The Houston Writers Guild is a nonprofit organization whose goal is to bring new authors' voices to readers and enhance literacy in our community. Please consider helping us fund the next anthologies to be published by the HWG Press.

As many of you know I've had the distinct pleasure of holding the post of HWG Press Director for a few months now.
With the help and guidance of my fearless mentors and numerous cohorts and tireless hours from passionate volunteers, we are are the verge of something great: the first anthology published by the internal press of the Houston Writers Guild.
But we need a little bit of your help.

One book isn't enough. We have a grand plan on publishing biannual anthologies of works handpicked from communities of writers. Writers whose words need to be heard...need to be read.
And we can't do it without YOU.
We need like minded people who believe in our creative vision or who have a few dollars burning a hole in their pocket and want to contribute to promoting literacy and to the splendid published works of up and coming authors.  

Please visit our Kickstarter campaign at the link below:

Your donations to this campaign are tax deductible. Please take a moment too to share with others who may want to help build up this great nonprofit organization.
If you are unable to contribute I ask you share this post, this link with at least one person you know who loves reading.
Or who knows the endless possibilities that come with opening a book.

Your support is greatly appreciated!

Thursday, September 10, 2015

the cross I no longer bear

 Four years ago I started this blog for the sake of my sanity and creative being. And truthfully in part so I wouldn't kill my husband and kids....or  rather lock them out of the house while I soaked in a bubble bath and ate dark chocolate and sipped Merlot.  (Who am I kidding??!! more like guzzling Merlot .)

A way to vent about the normal trial and tribulations that plague wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, women and basically any individual trying to survive life.

A journey to navigate the distance I felt existed between the What-To-Expect moments and the What-The-Fuck moments of my life.

Four years turned into sporadic and bumbling posts that relieved the anxiety and pressure I felt was placed on me by my family and friends...and most of all by myself.

 A series of posts that chronicled the hilariousness and shallowness with which I seem to be failing at life coupled with bitter sweet shit-just-got-real moments.

Then BOOM. Nothing.

It stopped as abruptly as it started.

I could blame it on a million different things....but at the end of the day it's still just another fucking excuse.

Then a whole slew of horrible, evil and wonderful shit happened and I lost track of time. And then lost track of life. Somewhere along the way I threw it all by the wayside and collapsed.  I withdrew from all things requiring more effort, passion and energy than I could muster.  Hell, all the energy I could exert involved reaching for the remote in my elastic-blown sweats covered in Cheetos.

 I fell victim to self-loathing, self-pity and worst of all: donuts.

 One year ago last month down to the exact day I laid flat on my back, legs spread and the world as I knew it took a turn for somewhere in between the pits-of-fiery-Hell-catastrophic-worse and a non-existent-blip-on-the-radar nothingness.

It's that grey area between, maybe some sort of Purgatory if you will, that left a hollow space in between my heart and gut. Metaphorically and physically.

A resounding silence filled my womb....and I never imagined it would be so deafening, so grating.

And so devastating.

And I hadn't even a clue there was anything....anyone to be heard.

My roller-coaster of a life is severely marked by the whipped innards of my female reproductive organs so 9 times out of 10 irregular symptoms are nothing to be alarmed about.

Except when you bleed for 7 weeks. One visit to the dr. and I was that woman. The fat one who gives birth at the all-you-can-eat-buffet in the loo because she doesn't even know she's knocked up.

Yeah, THAT one.

Mind you I did everything medically possible courtesy of the pharmaceutical companies to prevent this very thing.   Of course the irony of this doesn't escape me fully....I have a Depo baby and Nuva Ring baby as proof of the sense of humor Mother Nature has had with my ovaries.

Seems I only get in a family way when I have medically induced balanced hormones.

Go figure.

So there I was laying there, streams of salt falling on the scratchy sheet under my quivering mountainous thighs, and an awkward glance filled with pity and boredom from a nurse who didn't look old enough to be driving...much less holding my hand as my OBGYN ordered the standard blood work and noted the said blip in my chart.

With little time to pull up my pants, I was propelled into a surreal trek down the hall for labs surrounded by women all swollen with seed.

And so it was I squeezed into the only free seat I could find, seething in silence, disgust and jealousy as I scanned the sea of bellies.  And I sent my husband a text informing him of our...non-situation.

A text. Because the tragedy couldn't play out on a phone call that would inevitable take a turn for the loud and dramatic amid the snortling of my blubbering.

Besides. Where would I make said phone call? Trapped in my seat by the overcrowding of fertile uteri.

A text. That warranted a phone call. THE phone call to end all phone calls.

His reaction still resonates with me today. Perhaps this is what has created this cataclysmic divide between us....perhaps this what has urged me to pick up the pen and begin again the journey I so desperately attempted four years before.

Anger. Resentment. Hostility. All three emotions bled through the phone as he hissed at me in disbelief as the blood ran from my womb.

Granted the shock he felt with crippling student loan debt,  low FICA score, a college bound senior, junior highschooler and destructive 5 year old wasn't already enough, he lacked the compassion and solace I needed at that moment.

That moment. It lives in infamy. And cut a jagged gaping hole in the ground where we stood and has left us on the edge of a great divide....that is precariously threatening to swallow us whole.

Solace I sought was found in the stepfather who drove me to said appointment so I wouldn't waste the time and money fussing with valet when I felt so wretched.

Solace found in the moment he took my hand and allowed me to cry with a force I never knew my body could handle.

Compassion found in the moment I realized what I had lost. And how much I never knew I wanted it.  And the screaming he endured for my sake as I headed back to the life I had left behind one hour before.

Compassion in the random phone calls said father figure makes on any given day to make sure I still am holding my shit together.  Or the impromptu workday cupcake delivery to strengthen the quivering facade .

All because I mourned the loss of something I never knew I had....and grieved the loss of someone I never knew I wanted.

It doesn't fail me the blessings I have had in this lifetime.  And it started with my daughter.

I wrote a friend of mine recently and explained the importance of my sun, my moon and stars: my daughter  I don't know if it's a general feeling most parents feel when you welcome that first babe or child into your home and heart....but I like to think it's something kind of special.

A one of a kind non duplicated feeling that only she can emit from me.  I love my children with every fiber of being and soul. Equally.

But my girl represents, IS something more than anyone can understand.  With her first breath in this world she became the catalyst that lead me here.   She is the reason I am still alive, and didn't die of an overdose in some back alley or on some asshole's floor amid a bunch of life sucking losers.

I may have been sober and cleaned up my life, but she gave me a reason to stay that way.  The bond I have with her is selfish, self-serving and maybe a bit co-dependent if examined too closely.

Let's not.   Take it at face value: she was/is my rebirth.  She gave me a purpose I never cared to find, and led me to the family I built and nurtured the growth I needed to be the mother I am.

The mother of tattoos, warts and mouthy G-D's and all.  Like I said, a work in progress.

The grief I felt on that day, in the coming months which brought a laparoscopy, more doctor visits, and more space between me and everyone else was all-consuming.

At times it was so suffocating I was left breathless, gasping for sanity amid unexpected bouts of crying in meetings, lunchtime anger complete with breaking of pencils and slamming of office doors.

Locked down in my office for hours at a time with little to no contact with any one person who may give me that oh-so-sorry look or soapbox about Angels and babies and Heaven and God.

They could take their fairy-tale Gods and Angels. I had no time for them. Leave me the ones of the old...the ones of fresh moist Earth, the swaying branches of the trees, the sweetness of the jasmine outside my house.    The ones who didn't damn me for the nights spent angry and cursing at a starless sky.

Who didn't condemn me for the scathing stares at strollers, onesies and pictures of newborns proudly displayed.

Like I said. It consumed me.  And it left me faithless. And filling with a darkness that allowed no room for the love I so wanted to give.

So it was I pushed away co-workers, friends, my children and finally my husband.

And when I was all alone, I realized even I couldn't stand myself.   This hate and anger building was burning through my body, leaving me scorching everything in my path.

I needed a change before I sobbed my way out of a job. Or was institutionalized .

Trips to understanding therapists brought countless yellow plastic topped salvation....a short-lived and bitter dry mouth aftertaste followed. And I managed.

I managed to make it through.  Through the motions of work. Home. And living.

An echo of the person I once was, I found myself trudging through the motions. Until those motions were not even enough.

Until the endless popping of yellow tops became futile and I found myself staring down the drain at a the tiny blue and white beads of sanity.

And hope.

So I sought hope elsewhere.  I perused MD Web, Pinterest, Facebook and every other outlet I could find inspiration, motivations. Salvation.

Hours spent huddled over my desk, late nights in the dark losing myself in the world wide web seeking a savior for the husk I felt I was becoming.

The dry whispers of my former self were out there somewhere....I just had to find them.

I began with a solid 3 week regime of boot camp.  Losing weight and gaining the pride and self-confidence I felt I lacked seemed to be an easier solution than divorce and cheaper than therapy.

Besides, my years of latent vegan-ism might bring the peace I was so desperately seeking.

And so it was I signed up, committing for a solid year.   Motivated by the excellent and genuinely sweet girl who was our trainer, I began to feel....well, to feel.

Emotions beside anger and pity.  Emotions that didn't leave me reaching for food, flight or fight.

Emotions I knew I wasn't alone with.  And the acceptance of setbacks and wins was even more powerful than the negative energy that had become my norm.

Until August hit. There I was belatedly Spring cleaning my desk and I found a page torn from last years desk calendar stuffed in the bottom of a drawer.

Unearthing that scrap of paper, the bleeding red ink slashed through the 10th and right into my motherfucking heart.

A heart so hardened with ice I have spent the last 13 years attempting to chip away.

A heart now puddled at my feet and splattered on my crisply tailored heels.

A heart I feel cannot be fixed.

The floor dropped out from under me, and I stopped living.  I have laid in bed numerous mornings wasting both my money, my trainer's time, and shamefully pulled the covers back over my head.

The floor opened up and down I fell down this spiraling hole, Alice-ing my way through homework, Open Houses and manager meetings.

Sand digging aside, I have wallowed in my postponed acceptance  for as long as I could.   Postponing the closure I so desperately needed for as long as humanely possible.

Because it's a goodbye I never intended on having.

Amid the unwarranted judgment and advice from co-workers, so-called friends and even family alike, I secretly longed for things to be different.

Longed for that day I laid splayed like a turkey for stuffing to have a different ending.

Mind you I have a fabulous life....on a 40 oz in brown bag budget.

I have 2, nay 4 pretty fabulous kids...when they want to be....or want money or Legos. or bail money.

And who don't hold it against us when we say 'no'.  Or stumble and crash their castles of plastic. Or leave them in the holding tank.

Who with their door slamming, Iphone tweeting, sticky jammed fingers, infrequent phone calls and emails and dropping trow in the front yard selves weaken me at the knees.

And leave me in this bursting-at-the-seams-awe induced state....that I get to wake up everyday to this. To these people. No matter the distance, that some pieces of my soul have attached themselves and are floating around in them. These people I love and adore. And who hold this infinite power of my existence.

Damn. It makes it sound like my kids are horcruxes.  But I guess in a sense they are.

And then there is the husband who may be an asshole 7/10ths of the time, but he's a well meaning asshole.  Sorta.

What he lacks in wealth, he doubles in working two, three jobs, tackling college at middle age and occasionally bringing home the free swag/fruits of said labor in the form of baseball t-shirts and Koozies.

And mowing the lawn of all the neighbors.  And B-B-Q'ing some awesome steaks.

And getting me drunk and giving me a laugh or two.

But now those laughs seem few and far between.

And that between is what brings about this last part.

I don't know where to hit the restart button. I don't know how I get to the part where I rekindle the love, the passion, the want I felt before...the fleeting sense of completeness I failed to grasp tight enough.

The part where I get past the business of dying and the business of living. Where I apologize to old friends when I am a no-show in their hour of need, yielding mop, bread and needed vino.

Where I cringe and freeze over the simplest things like ordering pizza over the phone, putting on pants or going in public.

Where I beg mercy for the deadlines left unmet. For the words falling on inattentive deaf ears time and time again from the little voice hitting me at the waist.

Where I press fast forward to the part where my daughter cuddles on rainy Sundays, the unspoken bond and comfort in her embrace as we lounge around in our Snuggles watching Olivia do her thing.

Or the time machine I need to backtrack to that day.  That day I laid flat on my back. The day that time stood still for me.

The day I lost my hope. My faith.

I am still looking for it, and now seems as good a time as any to resume that journey I started four years ago.




Monday, January 14, 2013

Mayan calendars, Twinkies and 30 years of...30 years

Where in the hell do I begin? 6 months of a hiatus has left me struggling to decide where to....I apologize profusely and I wish it could be attributed  to stories of exotic world travels,  meditational retreats to Tibet or a huge financial win fall in the form of the lottery....but alas. And don't go checking your mail box for a check just in case....not yet anyway.

Nothing kept me away except pure laziness, procrastination and utter boob tube time. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's start with how I ended 2012 a little more enlightened than I started in spite of my fat ass staying a little less fat. And how I rang in 2013 holey pj's on my couch as usual...but the first time with my husband...and I actually lasted to 12 o'clock....however, I let's look at what I did manage to search and the following pertinent things about that were found about myself:

-I am way cooler sometimes than I realize

-I turned 30 and the world didn't implode and I didn't suddenly feel different

-I still have very little friends and I am finally ok with that because the few I have are the real deal and are here to stay....even thousands of miles away...or right around the block

-one of those friends is my mother. yes, I am one of those people. But don't expect matching boob jobs or tattoos....just maybe matching broomsticks

-yes, I do want one more baby and it ain't nobody's business but my own....but I  will take your suggestions and opinions into consideration...and then move to the deleted box

-my flirtation with veganism is ongoing, but I am a victim to death by cheese and bread

-marriage is a constant work in progress....but sometimes worth the fighting and shouting..and sex

-being unable to say no to the Man led me to a well deserved promotion

-I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up....but growing up isn't something I am rushing to do because I am having one hell of a time as a immature adolescent

-everything happens for a reason. NO DOUBT IN THIS.

Ok-so that being said let's start with the fact that I spent the last six months working my keester off at work, off at home and the laundry still gets washed and folded by someone else. What can I say? I am no domestic goddess. But I had the past few months to experience some really awesome stuff....seeing my name in print for the first time...without some sick twisted fantasy to accompany it. And it is refreshing to write about real people. Ones who aren't as screwed up as the ones in my mind.

It was working towards my daughter coming to terms with where she comes from...and still being strong enough to realize that isn't what defines her. Or what makes her who she is.  It's letting her know that being different isn't being wrong.  And sometimes this is difficult concept  for others to understand...and even more difficult for yourself. And just sometimes that's ok too.  For the clawing and scratching it took to get her to find her voice....and use it LOUD AND PROUD...without the rage, anguish and shame that accompanied it for so long.

It was 6 months of money and time wasted to realize that my son is perfectly unique and not fitting into the standards they set for him didn't stop him from showing them what he is capable of...and that's being a super caped avenger who LOVES his PB&J....only on white! It's realizing I need to sometimes listen to my heart and not my head...especially when my heart is so much stronger and intuitive than my head and its voices of doubt. It's becoming more in awe of my own capability to love others especially when faced with adversity and the fierce and overpowering urge to beat the shit out of anyone who calls my kid retarded or different...or crazy. And knowing I could and would win over a 300 lb gorilla because of the sheer adrenaline brought on by said love.

It's marking 6 years with someone whose socks I tolerate in bed and shoes I trip over by the front's 6 years of realizing love is appreciating and relishing in what you do have....and not comparing it constantly to what you don't have...or think you don't have. It's appreciating with highest level of appreciation  that sneaked nights out with quiet little dives with real napkins and an hour for hair and makeup fall second to Sunday mornings in complete with pancakes, eggs and eight feet in the bed....

It's recognizing the limitations of my time and body, but recognizing the need to feel the best I can...for myself, for my confidence, for my partner and for my I too can live to be 93 and still drive a car.

It's 6 months of another year that flowed into another and it's just that...another year. Just a calendar.  It's realizing that this might not be crowned my year or THE year necessarily, but it's my life, THIS life....and I am going make one hell of an attempt to make it worth something....I'm just still stuck on finding out what that worth, what that something is.

I just hope you stay along for the ride, to accompany me on searching for what it is I am looking for....and letting me know if you find it before me. Or at the very least rub it in my face a few times?

(Notice the missing profanity I normally have....trying out avoiding the f word for a while...see how long I last)

Anyway- I end hoping you got as big a laugh as I did about the whole end of the world thing....You'd think if the Mayans had it right they would have seen the whole Columbus thing....or the Twinkie thing. Don't really know which was more scary.

The lost episode of crazy.....not found in the extras DVD

Let me start this blog by saying that I realize summer is over and I have been achingly and glaringly absent and to my one (and only probably at this point) fan I apologize.  I was going to rip off some rhyme about no more teachers dirty looks and so get the gist, but really what's the point? It's been over 5 months since I spout anything worth wasting your time on....and even longer since I spewed anything worth wasting your time on TWICE. Anyone in the mood for pea soup yet? Just the use of spew makes me think of it....side tracking aside, seriously, I don't know what got into me...or out of me...what does that saying "into me" really mean? As if some demon has possessed my skin, and crawled in like some attack of a body snatcher which you would think would control stranger noises reverberating from my mouth and fast seizures of Vatican drama??? Or shouldn't it be "out of me" as if to imply that some piece of my psyche or even a sliver of my brain has seeped out, is bouncing around in the atmosphere and that would explain my forget fullness??? Either way, something is up with me and its the reason I fell of the planet, the reason I failed at completing or following yet another well laid plan....its the reason I sit here tonight at 10:00 pm motivated to get it done....the whole time worrying when I will muster the energy or courage for another.

This growing absence and inability to maintain a pattern or routine is gnawing away at me....I mean here I am going on 2 posts in 5 months and all the wonderful, fantastical ideas that normally flowed straight to paper are now becoming lost in the growing fat cells of my brain, thighs and ass.....and the ass part is especially horrifying seeing as how I will be 30 in two months and had pictured myself ringing in 30 with a more exciting body and life.....

What can I say? I've lost the momentum to keep writing even about the boring and trivial bullshit of adulthood....even I cannot stomach listening to the same things over and I recently I craved for something, a wrench to throw into the monotony....and so it was I managed to steal about 5 seconds for myself and as I stood in front of the bookshelf wondering which literary genre would break me from this spell, I glanced upon a frivolous and spontaneous purchase....the Story of O.  Mind you it was 1 am on a Saturday night and FINALLY everyone in my home was asleep. I was just looking for something to break my mommy-hasn't-left-the-house-without-sweats-funk and just happened to fall on it....and no perverts, it wasn't intentional....but wasn't unwelcome either....

It was a frivolous and spontaneous purchase because eons ago when I was a college kid I took a Human Sexuality course, and we were required to do a paper based on something from the required reading list.....well while searching for my chosen text on sexual slavery I happened upon one of the most antiquated bookstores, 1/4 books, tucked away in a little store right before the freeway on Shepherd.....anyway-I was kind of on a roll and decided to broaden my paper (plus flush out the length) by adding more material from other references.The quiet little nerdy mustached book clerk saw me weaving back and forth through stacks and after a quick glance at the growing titles in my arms, he reached behind the counter and plucked a white hardback from a shelf.  A simple white and black dusk jacket boldly read the Story of O by Pauline Reage.  I am no idiot and have long heard of the scandalous novel and I quivered and trembled in anticipation as he handed me the book.

I purchased it with my other books and spent the next 4 days and nights plowing through my required reading before I finally had down time for O.   Needless to say if you have never read the book, you should. The misconception is that it is pornographic-it is, but not in a 21st century way. The book is eloquent and articulate, not crude in describing O's descent into S&M and ultimate enslavement....or is it? The argument that she isn't a slave to Rene or Sir Stephen at all, but they are to her....well anyway-it was a highly intellectually stimulating novel...and it didn't lack in the other department either.

Well 5 years has passed since that original reading....and here I was standing there gravitating toward it and I realized it was just what I needed to get me off the couch....just what I needed to remind myself that I had fallen into some boring pattern, and there I was laying in a cooling bubble bath, sipping my tea, realizing I didn't have to be prey to a boring pattern or routine...

How you wonder did reading an X rated novel get me there? Where did I connect A to B? Well even I cannot tell you without coming off as pompous and an asshole....of which I am neither. Merely it was the fact that I had not allowed myself to read anything that shocking or graphic in so long I realized I was becoming boring myself.

Life is messy and exciting and calm and peaceful, but never boring. It shouldn't be....not the exciting, thrill seeking sort of way that used to keep me as high as a kite, but the exciting everyday is like your last...that everyday has this newness, this vitality, this something about that makes you realize it will never be the same...or rather it cannot be recreated, no matter how hard you try. Anyway, the Story of O reminded me of this and I spent the next three months of summer devouring every book I could squeeze in my free time from my shelf and reacquainted myself to Elizabeth. The Elizabeth who used to remember what it was to feel feel anything...

That feeling anything led to a rush of emotions and flood gate that crashed allowing me the next few months to find myself again....or to grow up. Whichever sounds more noble....and which led to this September post not making it in until 2013....

stay tuned for the newest episode of will premier shortly....and hopefully be way more worth wasting your time in devouring than this one....over six months too fucking late.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Retina A + hormones + a sprinkle of L. Frank Baum = saga of Wicked Witch

So the last week has been brutal and I am beginning to think the universe has it out for me....Seriously I leave my house everyday wondering if a house will fall on top of me....Which would be a terribly fitting end to the person I am....only instead of glittery red heels I rock some awesome ass hot pink pumps.

I have gone mental and not in a cool biopic tortured novelist kind of way....I seem to be crushing from the weight of the world right now and its all I can do from keeping the seams from splitting and everything to come out in a horrible gush of random discombobulated thoughts and feelings....

From my writer's block to the nagging itch of creative consciousness that is spewing out ideas that I have neither the patience nor budget to keep up with....from personal goals of unattainable svelte figures and small business to paintings to photos to stories with no endings or proper character development to aching longing of a life I never realized further complicated by the one I so vehemently denied and the one I fill space in now. 

If that isn't enough to send someone into a catatonic state or at the least render you stupid then you all have more will power than I have that is for sure. Fact is I want more than anything to find a job that pays the bills well enough to afford me the time to write and not just for pleasure or diarying my pathetic life out because it makes me comforted by the thought that its out there. Let's face it. I do this solely now to feel as if I exist, to know someone is listening, to know that someone somewhere cares. And I want more. I want to have people listen to my words and HEAR them with their minds and souls. I want someone out there to have a visceral reaction. I want someone out there to validate my self worth my letting me know how truly righteously creative a mind I have. I don't want to fade away as some half ass hack who had a ounce of talent and squandered it on a lifeless ordinary. 

But then it makes me a right bitch and cunt to think for one second the life I am living is anything less. Its more than ordinary and if it wasn't I wouldn't be writing this now because I would be too mundane too stupid too fucking ignorant to see the difference.

I guess today this blog is going to be a little meglomaniacish and completely egocentric because I am in that type of mood. The fruit of my womb seem to be doing a OK, so its mommy's turn to have a moment. The kind of moment where I need to have a complete rant or reminisce about things.

I could try and lie and say its needed self reflection, but I don't know exactly what it is I want to reflect on, so let's just take a trip in a time machine and see where it leads us.

All the way back to 1996-the year my parents divorce was final and 2 years following my cousin's suicide.

So let's start out by discussing a pimply greasy faced 7th grader with hunched shoulders trying so desperately to escape the shit life at home and the taunting of blonde, skinny self righteous bitches at school.  Who deep down hoped, prayed, cried for a life so much better than the one she thought she was living.  Now this girl befriended another girl who suffered from the same bullshit junior high politics and together they found solace in knowing that someday they would have the last laugh.   That someday the tables would turn and their clothes wouldn't end up getting stolen during gym class or their bra straps snapped as they sit in class.   Two years of a slow hell was speckled with the most amazingly funny moments, sleepovers, roamings of our local mall and then they were thrust into high school. For one tiny nanosecond there was hope at the end of the tunnel because everyone was an incoming freshman that they were ALL fresh meat, but alas it slowly darkened when they realized it was even worse when you had older more schooled predators with more vicious antics.  Maybe this is an exaggeration, but not too far off.  With high school came new teachers, new pressures, new faces and new humiliation. In the form of that one unrequited crush who with a straight face informs her she should stick to dating people of her own social class. Stick to dating people on her level. And in her mind this equated her fat ass and she set out to starve herself down to a zero only to be rebuffed yet again.  Then the girl's heart was truly broken when the time came for the second girl to move clear across the country, and an aching hole was left in the young girl's heart, and it took everything she had not to burn the whole fucking school down. 

Instead she chose to harden her heart, and rip it straight out of her chest, leaving a gaping hole that no one, nothing could fill, and she liked it that way. The freedom to be void of feeling, to be void of anything because it was easier than having the responsibility of giving a shit to only be knocked down over and over. To be disappointed, to be ashamed of everything she wasn't and horrified by everything she was.  Well, that was way too much heavy shit to lift, so she stuck to coasting through school, and getting the endless stream of criticism from counselors and AP teachers, all the while becoming a human garbage disposal for anything she could get her hands on in the way of drugs. She lingered long enough to make her presence forgettable and then due to a number of bad choices stemming from a number of bad days she ended up graduating without her peers in a school a 100 miles away in a city where no one knew her name. And the funniest part is that stupid bitch two days after graduation packed her car and hightailed it back to the same town she wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on. And so it was the rest is history.

Well that was well over 16 years ago when this tale started, and that pimply faced greasy 7th grader is still trapped in my fucking mind. She still lingers inside gnawing away at my innards for lunch, squirming and wondering if she is ever good enough. I feel it every time I look in the mirror, every time I pinch the fat on my thighs, every time I look at my kids and wonder if I am doing everything I can to be a good mom. With every word that comes out of my mouth I cannot snatch back and every word I write on paper, bleeding through, wondering it its ever enough.

And then I slap that silly little whiny cunt back into check because who doesn't feel the same way? Or at the very least who remembers and holds onto that shit? What about that boy all those years ago who looked down his nose at her? Does he even know who the fuck she is now? Probably not. And that girl who moved so far away is just a plane ride away, the one friend who held on so tightly, fiercely when all others slipped away. Something tells me she isn't dwelling on the past, and she is here because she wants the now, the present of what life has.

Why do you ask am I even worrying about this stuff? Well that little spoiled pathetic self loathing girl has reared her ugly head and is slowly trying to make her way this because I have had a horrible time at work lately with people who act like petty teenagers? Or is it because I am having a post 30 crisis and wondering what the hell happened to me that I worry what others think?

There is this saying that the age you first smoke pot at is the age you stay at. Thus your maturity level is indicative of your first attempt to regress or stunt this said maturity. That being said I should be a 17 year old perpetually-which I would give anything to fit into the jeans I did at 17.

lol. All joking aside, I think about this now because I wonder if this has something to do with my strange digression into memory lane, the paths twisting and turning, but never crossing. I am not blind to the fact I have so much to be thankful for. And the list will never stop, but sometimes its surreal,  words that get lost in an echo down some far off hallway, trying to explain, stumbling, and bumbling how I wish I knew what I was. that I wish I knew where I was going and where I had been. I wish I knew what the world had in store for me beyond this.

I know one thing is for sure. I have been trying my damnedest to find out these last few weeks. And all I can equate myself to is some bitch who carried a broom, and got her life snuffed out by some perky breasted chick with a lapdog and no GPS. And she stole my damn shoes as well. And still had 3 dudes following her around everywhere she went.

High school all over again.