It's like stalking but less fun and more invisible...

So.... a year ago I was planning a wedding and my escape plan from my mother. I still can't figure out which one was more stressful... Lately, she's everywhere. Not physically. I don't think she will ever be that ballsy. I dream about her. I think about her. I question my decision to stay away from her. I hate her. I love her. I whine that it's not fair that I got the shitty mom while my brothers got the nice, sweet, sacrificing mom who thought the sun shined out their collective ass.

I've had a lot of people remind me these past 10 months that this woman I've walked away from, is my mother. I've never forgotten that. I've been told I need to forgive her. I need to get over it. I need to hear her half of the story. I don't want any of that. I've spent my life hearing her half of the story - she's the victim. My father was a drunk and a pot head, my first step father was physically violent (which I have no memory of - when he left in the back of a police car, with me standing in my Garfield jammies, I thought I had done something wrong. Especially because once he got inside that car, I was alone with one of my brothers and no grown ups were there. Safe.) and the following one was "The biggest mistake of [her] life". Her parents made her become a nurse when all she wanted was to be a music teacher. Everything was done to her so that no one would see what she was doing to the small girl behind her.

I continue to tell people, "yes. she is my mother and she should have known better than to treat a small child like she wasn't worthy of being loved." No one wants to hear that. I've even flipped it and asked them, what if this weren't my mother, but an abusive spouse? Would you want me to leave? Would you want me to take my son and run and find a safe place where this person couldn't find us? How the hell is this so different?

She's everywhere right now. I think the thing that bothers me the most is wondering what my life could have been had I been encouraged and loved and nurtured and cherished in the way that my brothers were. I think I would cut that bitch if I met her. Or I would be eaten up with jealousy to the point of insanity. I hate how filled with envy I am. I hate it because I would never, could never wish my childhood upon another child. And then I realize that my reasoning is that another child might not have been strong enough to handle it.

I am strong. If there were an emotional Iron Man competition, I would beat the living hell out of almost everyone I know. I would win. Granted, I don't even feel like I'm a strong person. I deal with the aftermath and fallout of my childhood on a daily basis. My go-to response when something happens is to apologize, blame myself for it, and privately tell myself that if I weren't alive, nothing like this would have happened. My anxiety levels are off the charts to the point where even discussing going out and finding a job throws me into panic attacks and crying spells. I can't sit with my back to an open room without having to focus on my breathing. I've walked out of a coffee house because my usual seat, in the corner armchair, was occupied. If I'm so strong, why the hell am I so scared???

I hear her voice in my head at night. Never saying anything, but always implying a dare. "I dare you, Sunshine. I dare you. Do it. " I stand each day on this precipice and always look down wondering if someday, I will finally do it. Just to shut that bitch up.

This is the story of a girl...

I've had an eating disorder since as far back as I can remember. I can't remember a time when food wasn't obsessed about in my household. I was called fat throughout my childhood by the kids at school and my family at home. My weight was something to be completely ashamed of. It always has been. By the time high school came, it was a source of immense pride that I was only eating once a day, if that. I was thrilled that my lower ribs were sticking out and looked forward to the day they would nearly all stick out. I denied it though. I pretended that the ribs sticking out were ugly, but I envied each and every other girl who were effortlessly thin and continued to eat my one meal a day. When I moved out and no longer had my mother's eating disorder fueling mine, I started eating again. Not much at first, but when I ended up in an abusive relationship, I began comfort eating and now I'm at the other end of the spectrum.

Last year I had a doctor send me to an "informational meeting" about gastric bypass. I was immediately against it, but I went because I was willing to hear what was going to be said. In that meeting, I was horrified to discover that as long as it is medically supervised, anorexia is apparently okay if you're overweight. I left that session fully aware that I would not be agreeing to more. Instead, it triggered a restart of my initial disorder. Lately, I have been fighting to just eat 2 meals a day. I went a full day without thinking once about eating and was shocked when I realized that I hadn't eaten at all. The worst part about it is that I'm being rewarded almost daily for my behavior. I'm down 20 lbs since last year and when I tell people that I hear that I'm fantastic and way to go and all those other celebratory things because when you're fat, it's not anorexia. It's getting your life back. It's finally showing respect for yourself and giving yourself a chance. Why can't they see that anorexia is anorexia regardless of your size. I honestly don't know how the hell this is going to get better when everyone, including doctors, thinks this is a spectacular idea. The only person complaining is Sara, and that's because she knows that it scares me. She knows I don't want to end up bony and bird-like with the same figure as my mother. I don't want a pacemaker like my mother's because I've eroded my heart from refusing to eat.

Not so quick update

To explain what happened to me as a child is difficult. I have fractured memories and bottles upon bottles of anger and hurt about them. When I was really little, it was easier. I was more pliable and I could worship my mother and believed she was the greatest thing in the world. Things took a turn though. I don’t remember exactly when that was. I don’t remember if it was a single moment in time or if it was gradual. I remember her last marriage ending and feeling responsible for it and becoming more resentful of her for it, but then I remember something that happened earlier for just a second and then it fades away into the mist. Did she start disliking me because I gained weight or was it because I was on the cusp of puberty and she didn’t like it? I honestly don’t know. I used to tell people that she and I were either far too different or far too alike to get along with one another, and maybe on some level that’s true, but not true enough to excuse what she did.

The best way to explain it is in the scraps of information I have from her childhood. She told me that she was responsible for her brothers and keeping them out of trouble or she would get in deep trouble herself and she told me that things, at several points in her young life, got so bad between her mother and herself that she nearly moved in with her aunt, my grandmother’s sister. That’s all I have to go on, but it’s enough to know that I am not the first daughter in my family to have been subjected to narcissistic abuse.When I came out a girl, I didn’t stand a chance at being cared for. I was a “fix it” baby, meaning my parents conceived me to fix their marriage. Neither of them will admit it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if they were divorced when I was barely a year old, there were major problems long before I stumbled along.

My early childhood was good. I had all the toys I wanted, within reason. I had two brothers that let me play with them, sometimes. I had a mom who would sing to me and let me sing with her. My infancy was not that good. My first memory is of shouting and crying and screaming all around me. My oldest brother hiding me behind this God awful ugly chair in the corner and kissing my forehead and then nothing. When I asked about it, I was rebuffed, repeatedly, until finally she told me that my father was beating my other brother and she was trying to stop it. Paul, the oldest, knew it was his job to make me safe and he did. When I asked why that was such a huge priority, I was told that my father had once hurled me across a room (as an infant) because I was crying. Honestly, it was a good call on her for making the decision to hide me. These memories and incidents are why I rarely drink. I will joke about it, but my father’s alcoholism is a huge deterrent in my drinking life. When they divorced, things got better. The only really bad memories I have of that brief time included my two trips to the hospital, once for hypothermia because my step father had left me in a bathtub with a window open in the middle of winter and again when nearly I nearly drowned in a hot tub. The only reason she took me the second time was because there were a lot of people there and my aunt insisted I go. When I became of school age, things started to get worse.

I haven’t ever really been all that lucky. I joked for years that the last time I’d ever won anything was in kindergarten when we played musical chairs before Christmas break, and to be fair, I killed it. Seriously. I was the bomb at musical chairs. I can’t really remember much about that period of my life. I remember the smell of the art room at school. I remember being a sort of pet to Paul’s friends. I remember Brian hating me and beating me up on a regular basis. I avoided him when I could and whenever I went crying to my mother, I was told I shouldn’t provoke him. I should just learn to walk away and be the bigger person. This wasn’t a concept I could grasp at the age of 5. I don’t think I grasped it until I was in my late teens/early twenties. That was a constant in my childhood and adolescence though. Brian hitting me, kicking me, pulling my hair, making me cry, making fun of me, calling me horrific names that no woman, much less a child, should be called. I hated him for years. HATED him. I remember being so excited when he was a senior in high school because I knew he’d be gone after the school year was done and I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore and maybe, just maybe our relationship would improve. The funny thing about it though, is that when my mom lost her job and moved up to Michigan (leaving us behind), our relationship improved. We stopped fighting. We started getting along. We were able to cooperate and co-habitate with one another. We were friendly. Which has made me wonder what in the hell she was saying to him about me. Triangulation is an enormous feature in my relationships with my my brothers. Since I stopped talking to her in January my relationship with Paul has gotten so much better, but I will get into that in a bit.

I wasn’t denied the basic human needs for the most part. I had food, clothing, and a bed. I had toys and books. But I don’t know if I would say I had love. I had something resembling it, but the memories are so foggy and unreliable. I remember getting in major trouble for playing with my mother’s make up, but I remember her taking care of me when I had the chicken pox. I remember playing by myself a lot and always feeling like I didn’t belong. My first suicidal thought happened probably around the time I was 5, 6, or 7. I had a recurring dream about horrible goblins living under my bed that would stab you with a machete if you slept on your back. When you got up in the morning, the machete was still there and the people were wandering around just expressionless because they were dead. Weird, right? I remember most of all being jealous of her residents at the nursing home. She was so tender and sweet and loving to them. I started faking sick on a regular basis when I was in third grade. I wanted her to take the time to care for me like that. Most of the time, when I was sent home, I walked home alone and curled up on the couch feeling empty and alone. I hated everything about my life. Everything. My mother chalked it up to hormones, but I was barely 8 and I didn’t get my period for another 3 years. Hormones my ass.

I don’t remember ever being reassured about things either. I remember feeling insecure all the time and jealous of how easily things came to my brothers. I remember being fascinated by things, but never encouraged. The piano was put in Paul’s room so he could practice whenever he wanted, but it was off limits to me. I wanted to be him by this point. I wanted to be as perfect as he was. I wanted to be encouraged and reassured and nurtured like he was at every turn. I wanted all of it, but I never got it. When I was in middle school, she started a job that involved a lot of traveling. She would be gone from Monday to Friday, usually, and while Paul was in town, he was at the university, and my aunt and uncle were in town, but they weren’t particularly fond of the idea of their girls spending time with me. So instead, she hired some lady she had once worked with to check in on us once a day. Otherwise, we were on our own. For perspective’s sake, I was 13 or 14 and Brian was 16 or 17. Now I realize that she should have had CPS called on her, but no one really got into anyone else’s business. Instead, I collected mothers. Women who were strong and kind and loving, but I always was well aware that they were never mine.

Paul and I used to somewhat get along. We had a weird relationship though. As a single mother, my mom used him as a secondary authority figure – like a father figure almost. I liked him because he would call Brian off when he started to get “too rough”, and I use that term lightly. Too rough in my house meant that blood was drawn. I didn’t like him because he would never really have fun with us. Pillow forts were too childish and music was more important anyways. Granted, he is 6 years older than me. Things between he and I got bad when I got older. He tried to deter me from music, which in hindsight, I wish I had listened. He tried to keep his role as an authority figure long after it’s relevancy had waned. It never helped that my mother was always praising him and his efforts and how wonderful he was and how great it was that his friends were always over and how personable he was and etc etc etc... She never once said anything remotely close to that for me. I was supposed to be her. I was supposed to be the musician she never got to be. I was supposed to stick it to her parents (in a matter of speaking) and I was to be everything she wanted to be. She wanted to be a singer, I majored in it, but Paul was the one who became the musician she wanted to be. She sent him, multiple times, to Europe to study or compete. He became an organist, a pianist, a harpsichordist, a composer, a conductor, and a very well respected member of the musical world. I didn’t.

In my family, both in the home and extended, I was a punchline. Little Aimee who couldn’t keep her clothes on at the age of two. Little Aimee who had horrible temper tantrums and would slam doors. Little Aimee who was too loud. As I became a teenager, my sexuality became something everyone was afraid of. Not because they didn’t understand bisexuality or anything like that. Most of them didn’t know I liked girls until Sara. I was a young woman. I developed early, which for some reason was reason enough to pigeon hole me as a tramp by the time I was 15. I was poorly supervised as well, so of course, I was going to whore around. In my 15^th year, I had two boyfriends and one boy I loved desperately and tried desperately to forget. I broke up with one of them because he moved to quickly for me and I broke up with the other because I didn’t want to be someone’s property. I made decisions for myself and I was forced to grow up far too quickly. I became the head of a household when I was 15 and my mother moved to Michigan. She was home on weekends, but that didn’t change the fact that I ran the house and did everything but pay bills and grocery shop. I got my older brother up and off to school every morning. I made dinner and made sure homework was done. I did all of this and when I had the audacity to break my thumb in gym class, she threatened to move me up to Michigan with her before the school year was out. Never mind that there was only 2 weeks left to school and she’d been gone since February. My aunt and uncle that lived in town, by this point, were barely talking to us, and whenever I called to talk to my cousin (who was only a month older than me), she was never allowed to talk to me. I was dangerous and not to be associated with. When I started seriously dating people, I dreaded bringing them home to meet my family. I’ve only let them meet 2 people I’ve dated and I will never put Sara through that. I love her too much.

I don’t trust a lot of my memories though because I’ve been gaslighted. Whenever I brought up a memory that didn’t fit or had an argument with my mother, she rewrote history and presented it as fact. I wrote her a letter about a year ago, addressing the things I saw wrong in our relationship and how I wanted to fix them. I received a letter back telling me that I had stated months previously that I had admitted that all of these concerns were baseless and pointless and that if I continued to bring these things up to her, she would only speak with me about them in front of a licensed therapist. She said it because she knew I would back off and I did.

I don’t know if this explains anything, or if writing it was even necessary. I know that it’s a big part of why I can’t trust people, why I have anxiety issues, why I can’t handle harsh criticism, why I get defensive very quickly. I didn’t write this for sympathy or advice. I wrote this because it’s who I am. Not everyone gets the sweet wonderful dream come true family. Probably no one thinks they do, but there are people who do. My Sara is one of them. She came from a loving sweet family, with two parents who not only loved each other, but who adored each other and the babies they had together. I envy that childhood with my entire heart. I envy it, but I would never trade my childhood with someone else’s. I would never make someone else suffer just so that I could have it easy. I hate that I hate my mother. I hate that I love my mother. It’s unfair that any child should feel this way about their parent, but I get to stop it for my child and if others come along, them as well. Most people, understandably, get really upset when I tell them I won’t speak to my mother. They had loving mothers. Yes, they get angry at her from time to time, but they have never had to genuinely question if she loves them. I constantly asked myself “why can’t I just be good enough for her? Why can’t I just be enough for her to be proud?”. Now I’m asked when I will talk to her again. My honest answer is never. I can’t forgive her what she put me through because she chose to. I can’t forgive her because her apology will never be sincere and she will never be remorseful. I can’t forgive her for not even giving me 24 hours of happiness after my wedding before she treated me to the worst fight I’ve ever had with anyone. Instead, I'm happy. I have a wife and a son and a dog and a cat and they're all I need. She has a family that is nice and I'm trying to let them love me, but it's hard. I'm cobbling together a family from my closest friends. All of it is hard, but God help me, I'm trying. 

Stalking? I prefer to call it "enthusiastically shadowing"

It's been a surprisingly decent week. My mother has been ramping up her efforts to get a reaction out of me in the last couple weeks. It culminated in her deciding to just show up at our home last weekend, using her desire to sign over her van to me as her excuse. Thankfully, we got up early, drove up to her house (while she was en route to our home) and dropped the car off. I reiterated my desire for her to stay away in a letter, but I think it will only be a bandaid over a bullet wound. Afterwards, I had a great day, but I don't know how worth it it was considering the morning.

I am having a hard time with this. I really want to just accept that I don't get to have a mom. I want one though. Who doesn't? I just don't get one. I have mother figures, who are kind and loving, but I don't know if I could come running to them in tears if something horrible happened. I don't trust people. It's funny, I see the best in people for the most part, but I don't trust them at all.

I have so many uncried tears that I just want to get out. I'm so used to having to hold myself together that the idea of letting go is terrifying.

Damn I'm sore

Strength comes in many form. There's the obvious physical strength that when present in excessive amounts results in a scary visage laces in bulging veins and possible 'roid rage. Then there's emotional and psychological strength. You can't really see either. They are so closely linked that I'm not really sure they can be completely separated. I am moderately strong physically. I chopped the hell out of a sidewalk full of ice yesterday that was about 3 inches thick. My muscles ache and I'm tired.

Emotionally, I am stronger than most people because I have had to be. I often feel weak emotionally, but I figure that is because like muscles, I am just sore and tired. Like that jelly feeling you get in your legs after a long run. Psychologically, I'm working on strengthening that part. One day, I want to be able to not give a goddamn about what other people think. I want to be able to know that I'm awesome without validation from others. I want to not be scared of things I have control over.

My mother called this week to announce her desire to come down here this weekend to take care of a few "loose ends" having to do with my car. She isn't asking if she can come and I suspect she will eventually just show up. I have been angry and terrified ever since she made that call. The terrified part is starting to leave me though and is being replaced by a resolve to remove her from my home if she shows up. I am angry and frustrated. I dreamt of her last night. It woke me up and I was physically sick for two hours. She needs to go away and for once, I might be strong enough to get rid of her.

Come to the dark side... We just ran out of cookies

I'm in a bad place. A very very bad place. I wish talking to people would help, but it doesn't. They give me the sad face and tell me how my words make them sad. Truth is though, if I'm being 100% honest with myself, I want to kill myself. I really do. I look in the mirror every morning and every night before bed and I see a fat, ugly, selfish, lazy, horrible person. A person who doesn't deserve the things she has. Someone who can't trust a compliment because I truly do believe its just something people say to lower my guard so that when they stab me in the back, the knife goes nice and deep.

I live in fear of the day Sara will leave me and I just want to run away from everyone. I have no illusions of grandeur. I don't think that if I run away MY life will be better. I just hope that my running away and living in a ditch somewhere will result in someone killing me so that I don't have to do it. I find myself angry with Sara when she compliments me and then I get enraged with myself for pushing her away. She deserves better than I can ever give her. I hate myself for letting her go through with the wedding and even when she assures me that it's what she wanted, I just nod because I don't want to argue with her. If I were a good and decent person, I would have stopped her, but instead, I was selfish.

My mother is right to hate me. I'm negative, worthless, and have nothing to offer. My father was right. I should have been aborted. I still hope they die painfully - even if all they were doing was being honest with me. Maybe my mother isn't a narcissist. Maybe I am and I'm twisting things so that I'm the victim. Bullies pick on people by accusing them of the things they hate most about themselves. Aren't I just doing the same thing? I'm a "victim" so I despise it in my mother. Seriously. Sara and Liam say that I'm "the glue" that holds us all together, which I interpret to mean that I demand all the attention in the house. I sure as hell am my favorite topic. Seriously. Liam and Sara both deserve better and I owe it to them to try. I doubt i will ever succeed. I'm a coward and G-d seems to hate me.

But she's your mother!

I've heard this a lot lately. Every time I hear it, there is a pang of guilt that hits me like a ton of bricks. She is my mother. She tried to be a mom sometimes, but mostly she was my mother. She gave me life and most of the time, I'm grateful for that. But she's also someone who has caused me so much pain that I've genuinely wondered if suicide is the only way to make her happy. I have done everything I can to make her happy. I've made myself smaller. I would speak when spoken to. I was honest, unless I was terrified. I made myself smaller and I tried to be what she wanted, even, no, especially if it meant not being me. When I got frustrated or tired of the charade, I snapped at her or got argumentative. I got great grades in school. I worked my ass off - all of it trying to make her proud or happy, but something was always wrong. I was subtly compared to my siblings unfavorably. I was blamed for things I couldn't have done. I was thrown under the bus and no one stopped it.

I smile wistfully at these people because their moms probably made time for them. They were proud and made sure you knew it - not just because you made them look good, but because you had done so many wonderful and unique things that made you who you are. You had support and someone to cry to if things got really bad. I didn't have that. I collected surrogate parents. I relied on friends who weren't capable of parenting me because they were just kids themselves. I get jealous sometimes, but I recognize that that is about me and that I am genuinely happy for people who didn't have to go through what I did. It doesn't mean I don't go to sleep at night asking, 'why me?'.

It's been a month since I last saw my mother and had the worst fight I've had in 9 years. On the 4th, it will be a month since I told her I couldn't be a part of her life anymore and that I didn't want her in mine. She tried calling me this week and, because I blocked her number, left a voicemail. I didn't listen to it. I made Sara listen to it for me and she said my mother sounded like nothing had happened. I want to email her and ask her what part of my email did she not understand. I can't though. I have established boundaries and if I break them, even to reestablish them, it shows her that they are weak.

I've been considering getting a phoenix tattoo to remind me of what I am. I am rising from the ashes and while the current version of me isn't pretty and is a complete mess, if the legend is correct, I will emerge from this more beautiful than before. I think a reminder would be nice right now because I keep forgetting that this is just the messy stage.

Yes. She is my mother and because of that I thank her for creating me and for carrying me, but I do not thank her for a childhood of being her scapegoat, of her ignoring abuse, and feeling inadequate. I have had to create my own family. It is small and it is a patchwork quilt of people, but at least they give me the love and support I need without demanding restitution for the inconvenience. They let me love them in return too and that's the part I like best. I get to walk away without guilt. I get to emerge from the destruction and ashes of my life up until this point and I get to try again.

Sometimes, life is a fucking bitch

I keep trying to talk myself out of this.... separation with my mother. I know it's important and for the best, but I keep realizing that there are moments I'm going to miss out on and things I will never see again. I will still be able to see my grandma, but someday, when she dies, I won't be able to go to her funeral. If either of my brothers marry or have more children, I won't be there. Family reunions, not that I've been to any in recent history, are off limits too.

I remind myself that my immediate family wasn't really interested in me and that the love I have felt and extended, far exceeds anything I've received in return. How the hell does that work? I was asked today, why do [I] think that no one likes [me]. For the first time, I found a reasonable response. My family, the people who are supposed to love me regardless of anything (they don't have to like what I do or say, but they should at least love me), has never even liked me, so why should anyone else? I've been told, through actions, implications, and sometimes direct words, that I am an inconvenience, unimportant and unloveable ever since I was small. I've stated before that I believe I was conceived in an effort to repair my parents' floundering relationship and when that didn't work, I was given the blame. It's part of why I'm scared to have another child. I want one with every ounce of my body, but I don't know if it's a practical decision. I want it to be, but I don't want to risk becoming my mother. I know I have the ability to control that and perhaps this is the easiest and best way to do it.

I know this has been rather haphazard. Unfortunately, it's where my brain is now. It's like tipping over a bookshelf or a toy box. I'm trying to find order and reason in chaos and it's not working. *sigh*

In which I admit all and walk away from my mother

I got married last month. It's not legally binding because my state wouldn't recognize it anyways. It was beautiful and I could not have asked for a better day for it. I was beautiful. Sara was beautiful and we and Liam cried tears of happiness and excitement. It was awesome. I thought this would make a lovely preface for what is likely to be a rather upsetting post.

I was an abused and neglected child. I didn't even realize it until this past September, when someone pointed out to me that my mother is a narcissist. Outwardly, our family is wonderful. My mother is a triumphant single mother who raised three children on her own. We make a point not to share the family secrets and to hide the cracks in the veneer. But things were not as great as we put on.

I was a happy child, but somewhere along the road that changed. I became depressed. I felt like I was worthless, fat, ugly and horrible and that was before I hit puberty. Looking back, my mother put a lot of pressure on me to look a certain way. She used to tell me she used to be fat too. I later found out that at her heaviest she was around 135 lbs. At my lightest, I was 145 lbs. So, there's that. I wanted to please her, so I joined her on her one meal a day diet. I immediately went to my room afterwards and exercised it off through sit ups, leg lifts, planking, push ups and anything else I could imagine to get those calories off of my fat ass. When I went away to college, it took me three months to start managing another meal without feeling guilty.

When I entered adolescence, my, now diagnosed, mental illness started to make life unbearable. I became enormously depressed and, because my mother was never around, I relied on my friends to help me through. My mother first got a job that required a great deal of travel, so she got an old co-worker to check on my brother and me once a day. Then after my grandpa died she moved up to her new job and left us behind during the week. It was nice of her to let me finish out the school year, but I still felt abandoned. I grew up a lot during those months and when I moved back in with her, there was a lot of fighting because I wasn't willing to give up my freedom. Eventually, I just gave in because I didn't want to fight anymore. I asked her once to go see a therapist to deal with the crippling depression and was told "You don't need therapy. What can you tell a therapist that you can't tell me? If anyone in this house needs therapy, it's your brother". In middle school, when she got called into the guidance office because the counselor was worried I was suicidal, my mother was outwardly concerned. When we got home she angrily asked "So, do I have to put you on suicide watch now?" There are days I wish I had gone through with it. I was always an inconvenience. Later, when I became an adult I was hospitalized twice for suicidal behavior. The first time she was upset because she felt Liam was being hurt by it. The second time, it was at an inconvenient time for her. *sigh*

I wish I could say it was always bad because it would make everything easier to take, but there were genuinely good moments. When I first got my period, she was kind, understanding and caring. She took me out of school for a grown up girls day and we shopped and had lunch and it was fun. She took me to my first opera and occasionally we would go see plays together. But these were moments. Everyday life was unbearable and for years I have felt guilty for hating her and have been trying to fix the situation. I wanted a real mom who was proud of me for my accomplishments instead of trying to make them about her.

My wedding was the last straw though. The ceremony was fine. She behaved very well, but once pictures started, it became about her. A friend offered to take professional pictures and they turned out beautifully. I asked my mother to help with pictures so we could get some candids that were fun. *sigh* She pouted and got angry and as soon as she could get me alone, she told me how "that girl" had shoved her out of taking photos. I didn't want to fight and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell my friend to stop taking photos. I avoided two more arguments that evening. The next day, she picked the worst fight we've had ever. The last time we had a fight that even came even somewhat close was in 2005, but this one left them all behind. I would post all the gory details, but they aren't important. I said things I'd been wanting to say and she denied everything before screaming false apologies at me. I began sobbing and apologizing for everything I could think of. For being born, for not being a boy, for not being good enough, etc. I hadn't planned on getting into it with her. I'd been avoiding this argument for months and she finally got the fight she was looking for. We went on our honeymoon after taking a little time to regroup and after Liam was picked up when it was over, I let her know that I was done. I have walked away from my mother and while I'm working through the guilt of that, I want to know what it feels like to like myself. *sigh*

I get how bad this sounds and I get that it's bad to walk away from both of your parents. But remember, not all parents are nice and not all parents are supportive. I was the scapegoat and watched my golden child brothers have a fantastic childhood in comparison to mine.

The Much Awaited: Thanksgiving Thankfuls

I mentioned a few posts ago that I was going to right my own, honest, thankful list. Not the self indulgent bragging crap, but real ones. So, here goes:

Day 1: I am thankful my mother didn't abort me so that she could abuse me.

Day 2: I'm grateful for being emotionally stunted. It makes interactions with normal people extra special.

Day 3: I am grateful I am not in elementary school anymore. Going to school with the fear of a psychopath shooting up the place hanging over my head day after day might have traumatized me.

Day 4: I am thankful that my parents created me in an attempt to save their marriage. Setting me up for failure since conception has been a learning experience to say the least.

Day 5: Today, I am thankful that Wham! wrote " Wake me up before you go". It's inspired many a dance party in my head.

Day 6: I'm grateful my most recent therapist was such a colossal asshole that I no longer want anything to do with therapy, despite being well aware that I need it more than the average bear.

Day 7: I am thankful that my ex-fiance (Steve for those of you playing the home game) moved to Dubuque. I only go there every weekend because this tiny ass town 20 miles away has so little to offer. I love the slight worry that I will run into him and will therefore get to enjoy copious amounts of drama.

Day 8: I am grateful for schadenfreude. It's a real thing. Look it up. Enjoying the misery of others has helped to brighten my dark and twisty life on numerous occasions and I love it when it crops up.

Day 8: I am so thankful for the endless mirth provided by Craigslist. Today's gem was an ad in Dubuque looking for a "midget" who would basically be owned by a group of people and would be subjected to demeaning scenarios and sexual acts. I love it when it goes the extra mile.

Day 10: I am thankful that we are finally getting out of this crapartment and into a condo. The major bonus is that we will be paying less in rent and utilities while still upgrading.

Day 11: I am grateful that the wedding industry is seriously out of touch with reality and caters to people who can and do spend a minimum of $25,000 per wedding. It's genuinely a pleasure to see the look on your faces when I tell you I am getting married at the swankiest place in Iowa for less than $5,000.

Day 12: I am super thankful for people who use social media to post pictures of abused animals and children to promote abuse awareness. I'm sure that everyone loves that you're exploiting those defenseless people/creatures in order to feel better about yourself. Seriously. Wy to go. Exploitation is so in right now. Also, telling me that I'm a heartless bastard because I won't "share" the picture is so helpful for the cause.

Day 13: I'm thankful I live in a small minded community that embraces the double negative. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have nothing to talk about.

Day 14: I am thankful I have a dog. Some days, she's the only reason I'm alive. It's nice to have one person in your life who always thinks the sun shines out your ass, complete with rainbow. Even when she's being a sassy brat, I love the hell out of her.

Day 15: I'm thankful that the Christmas onslaught starts a full six months early now. Really. It's a wonderful thought that consumerism has become such an ingrained part of our society that we really do think we can buy love from one another in the form of overpriced and completely unnecessary "presents".

Day 16: I am grateful for friends I can be a catty, bitchy soprano with. I get to do it so rarely that it is truly the higlight of my month to get to do something that awesome with someone I really love.

Day 17: I am thankful that people see RSVP by a certain date and just ignore it. I really don't need to know if you're coming to my wedding. There will be plenty of food. The caterer will not charge me extra for you showing up unannounced. Your belief that the sun rises and sets at your convenience is totally founded. YOU are the unique snowflake in the tapestry of life.

Day 18: I am thankful to have been raised in the same household as my oldest brother. Being that close to absolute perfection and a true child prodigy has made certain that I am truly and well acquainted with the definition of the word "mediocrity".

Day 19: I'm grateful that people will always enable bullies once they become adults. When one child bullies another, we crack down on the side of the "weaker" child. When an adult does it, sometimes it's abuse, but most of the time it's "just a joke" and the other person is being too sensitive.

Day 20: I'm grateful to live in a world where the extinction of an entire animal species (Western Black Rhino) goes completely unnoticed by the majority of the public. Way to go, humanity!

Day 21: I am thankful for grammar Nazis. It's nice to not be alone in expecting excellence from everyone. Same goes for spelling Nazis, only I'm a little more aggressive about this one.

Day 22: I am thankful for the culture shock I've enjoyed by moving from a large city (Des Moines) to a moderately sized town. The insular society enjoyed by all of our neighbors who have known each other since birth has been so nice. I have no interest in making acquaintances or, dare I say, friends. I could understand the guarded familiarity of the city, but this complete shut out has be surprising.

Day 23: I'm thankful for the looks people give me when I correct them when they call me a lesbian. I'm sorry that you can't wrap your head around the concept of bisexuality, but just because I'm in a committed relationship with a woman, doesn't negate my attraction to men. When you find someone you love, do you completely stop noticing anyone else being attractive? I'm marrying Sara, but I'm not dead.

Day 24: I'm thankful that, because of a genetic fluke, I have webbed toes. I've decided they are the source of my awesomeness. I was genuinely disappointed the first time I saw Liam's toes and they were normal.

Day 25: I am thankful that Sara loves me, even with all of my flaws. Seriously. I have truly wondered if she is a glutton for punishment. Girl could do so much better than this basketcase.

Day 26: I'm grateful for hypocrisy. If it didn't exist, I couldn't sit around and judge people and then ten minutes later, get really pissed when I'm being judged. Yay, hypocrisy!

Day 27: I'm really grateful Liam is going with his dad for the holiday. I love the little trout, but I think we all need a break.

Day 28: It's Thanksgiving! It's Hanukkah! It's Thanksgivukkah! I'm am truly grateful that Kmart is starting deals at 6am today and that Walmart is starting them at 6pm. It nice that they're trying to take the Jewish approach to deciding when Black Friday actually starts. Especially during Hanukkah. When the sales are for Christmas. *sigh*

Day 29: Today is the day. Black Friday. Today, I am thankful for American and Corporate greed and knowing that today at least one person in the country will be trampled to death and others will be hospitalized from injuries sustained from other people who are so desperate to pay nothing for something. It's like poorly controlled rioting. I'm also thankful it's my brother's birthday.

Day 30: I am beyond thankful that this list is finally done.

A New Look

I had to redo my background because something was up. No idea what, but I figured I would rather spend 10 minutes picking out a generic background than an hour on hold with some guy in India trying to understand what the hell he's saying, so, enjoy.

I had an interesting conversation with a close friend recently. We were talking about love. She's currently falling head over heels for a pretty nice sounding man (I have never met him, so I'm just assuming he's nice) and is in that "love conquers everything" "love can and will endure" phase. Don't get me wrong. I am very happy in my relationship. I am thrilled to finally be in a healthy relationship with someone who doesn't need to tear me down and apart in order for her to feel good about herself. However, I've been married and I've been engaged. Both of those men I loved fiercely and both of those men abused me once they got comfortable in the relationship. Love was not enough in those cases. Love did not endure and it sure as hell didn't conquer shit. I look at this reasonable, brilliant woman and I want to shake her and tell her to watch her back. Don't get complacent. Don't let him take you for granted. Ever. I know not all men are horrible. Not all men hit. Not all men tear you apart to feel like a man. But some do. Keeping your guard up is only smart. With Sara, I have been with her for 4 years and she has been my best friend for 7 years now. I am thrilled that I get to be one of those people who can say that they married their best friend.

Eventually, our discussion moved on to the wedding. I was talking about how surprised I was by how little Sara seemed to care about the cake or the menu or the music or even her dress. I mentioned that I hated being the other bride because I couldn't be there for everything she was enjoying (read: being dragged through by her mom). I love seeing her become a bride. It's so exciting. I have been planning every little detail in an attempt to give Sara the perfect wedding. I mentioned that with me, I had had my wedding. It was nothing I was proud of and I wouldn't wish that wedding on anyone. My turn was over, but Sara's wasn't and this was her day, not mine. At this point, my friend stopped me and told me that it was both our day. Yet, I feel like I can't justify this second wedding to myself. Like I have felt with Sara, I just don't deserve another one. I recall hearing it said that a wedding dress is like a coat of white primer paint. It covers up the past so a new one can begin. The old layers are there, but they're covered. It never sat well with me. I want so badly to admit that this day is mine too, but it isn't. I only have one other person who is helping me plan this wedding (excluding Sara) and I feel... like a fraud. I want this, but I had my chance and that's gone and a coat of primer doesn't change that.

An interlude with death

I'm on the road today. Left this morning for Sara's mom's and now we are off to her grandma's. She's not doing well. I absolutely hate this time of year. 15 years ago, during this time of year, my grandfather was dying. I have always been an unreasonable person. Years prior to my grandfather dying I had taken time to figure out what order I was comfortable with losing my grandparents. My aforementioned grandfather was the last one on the list, so naturally, he was the first to go. I was close with him. I spent every spring break and at least a week with him and my grandmother. I lived for these weeks because at least this way, I got a minimum of 2 weeks a YEAR where I was someone's special kid. He and I used to go for little car rides around the lake and once, when I was a teenager, he took me to a mall an hour away so that I could do girl things, like go to Claire's. Between he and my grandmother I got spoiled rotten during those weeks. I'm not talking about materially spoiled. I'm talking about emotionally. I got to play epic games of skip-bo and monopoly with grandma and I got to stay up curled up next to my grandpa watching crappy CBS dramas. I waited for the water tower light to come on with my grandpa. We would have smorgasbord lunches where we cleaned out the fridge and combined foods that had no business being combined. I was given memories that have been more precious than any thing I could have been handed. The only things I ever took from their house after they were gone were one of my grandpa's handkerchieves and the pink plastic loop I gave them when I was little. Backstory: I had a horrible habit of leaving things at their house. They would tease me and say it was just my way of making sure they knew I would be back. So one time when I was four, I made them a pink necklace and gave it to them so they always knew I would be back. Funny thing is, I couldn't take it out of the house. I couldn't do it, so my mother, in one of her true mom moments, brought it back to her house and hung it from her calendar (where they had hung it in their house). I have never reconciled the reversal of my list. Doesn't by any means mean that I don't like my surviving grandmother. I adore her, but she wasn't the same for me. I hate watching Sara go through this. It stirs up a lot of feelings that I have tried to stomp down, but worse, it's knowing that once your favorite grandparent is gone, it never stops hurting. It dulls, and you get used to it, but then something happens. You get married. You have a baby. You get divorced. You struggle. Any thing really. And there you are, wishing you could see them or talk to them. Back to the bargaining stage. It's unfair.

In which I insult my entire family

My wedding is less than 2 months away. I sent out invitations at the start of October. Unfortunately, I invited only about 40 people, knowing full well that only about 25 will show. I'm grateful for that because I can't afford any more than 30 people. However, that means that most of my family didn't get an invitation. My mom has 4 brothers, each of them has a wife, and between them there are 7 children. I hate that I had to be that person. I invited a distant cousin who I haven't seen since I was 13 or 15, but she and I have struck a pretty solid friendship and I want her there.

Then there are the bible thumpers. I have no problem with the ones who just love Jesus. Jesus was a pretty awesome guy. I don't believe he's the Messiah, but that's a whole different discussion. The bible thumpers are the ones who don't agree with the gay lifestyle (who asked??) and are fond of quoting Leviticus at me, and yet have no problem with women wearing pants. Yeah. Leviticus says that women who wear pants are whores and should be treated as such. These are also the people who told me I was going to hell for leaving my abusive ex-husband who used to release stress by abusing me. Usually verbally, but on special occasions he liked to hit me. Forgive me for not wanting you there as I pledge my love for a woman and vow to be with her until the end of time or the cancellation of Dr. Who.

The cousins aren't so bad. I feel horribly though, because there are a couple of them who I would LOVE to have invited, but if I had, the parents would have come and I don't want that level of anxiety hanging over me on my wedding day. To be honest though, I wish everyone could be there. It would be nice to finally interact with these people as an adult. To try to see if friendships can be formed or if these are just people that I know by virtue of my birth. I would love to know these people as people. Sure, my cousins are the fun kids who I tried to build an airplane with out of a wheelbarrow and spare parts behind my grandparents' garage, but, considering that I never talk to people from elementary school, I'm curious about these people. Being me, I just assume they don't want to know me. I'm also pretty sure I'm the black sheep, so I keep myself and my valuable, sooty wool to myself. I avoid family functions. But maybe it's time I tried to know these people.

I will probably send out announcements. It's the polite and proper thing to do. I hate that I've probably offended every single one of them by excluding them from the wedding, but honestly, the main reason is financial. We, Sara and I, not our mothers, are paying for this wedding. We have paid for everything and I like that. It means that I don't have to listen to the "you should do this" argument if I don't want to. Okay. Enough bitching and worrying. I should try to find a better topic next time. Maybe i'll start posting my thanksgiving thankfuls here. Be warned: they're all true, but they aren't like everyone else's.

Anger leads to hate, Hate leads to suffering

I feel like I am simmering with anger almost 24 hours a day. Anger at myself for being crippled by my social anxieties. Anger at Liam when he shows any hint of being like me because no one needs to be anything like me. Anger at Sara for being crazy enough to think I'm fine the way I am. Anger at my brothers for being only the most recent men to bail on my son. Anger at my now former therapist for saying that it is my fault for how I feel. Nevermind that I'm trying to deal with shit I've never dealt with before and emotions are bound to show up, but it is entirely my fault for those emotions for being there. I guess when you have been abused as a child, an adolescent and an adult, the smart thing to do is to just shrug it off and walk away. Guess I'm not smart.

It doesn't help matters that I decided to just stop my meds about 3 weeks ago. I was way overmedicated anyways, but that fact is only adding fuel to the fire of anger I'm trying to deal with. I am so angry and so upset and I don't want to talk to anyone about it. Professional or otherwise. I'm angry that people have pulled away from me like I'm a fucking leper. So instead, I'm isolating myself. Hiding from anyone that might be slightly interested in helping because no one in this world wants to be helping anyone. At least not without getting something in return. Even if all they receive is that wonderful feeling of self congratulations. And once again, someone profits from my misery.

The thing that has been bothering me the most though is how often suicide is coming up in conversation and the worst part of it is that I'm not the one bringing it up. It's usually part of a conversation that goes "did you know so and so died?" and then I find out that yet another of my friends has committed suicide. What's worst is that there is a part of me, albeit small, that is jealous. Jealous that they had the nerve to end it all and yet I'm stuck here waffling on the subject and trying to make sure no one knows about it because once anyone does find out, it immediately turns into a "I'm going to help you so that I feel better" situation and I'm not in the mood to make everyone else feel better. I'd rather figure out how to make myself feel better. *sigh*

Sometimes I admit how lost I really am

I think I made a poor choice in my major in college. I chose vocal performance, but was rejected because I didn't have the time to put into the major. So, instead, I went with general music. Did you know there is absolutely nothing you can do with a general music degree? I didn't. I was just happy to be getting the fuck out of undergrad in under a decade. Lately, I've been indulging in the land of "oh shit, I fucked up. Is it too late to fix it?" and I have no idea as to what to do. Should I swallow my pride and just keep going on to grad school for Music History? It's ultimately where I want to end up. Or, do I go back to undergrad and do the major I should have done in the first place - namely, Violin performance? I have no idea. All I know is that I really really miss being in an orchestra. I really enjoy the feeling I have with my violin in my hands and when I'm rocking out with my favorite baroque composers. Mainly the Italians. They know how to compose.

I've been struggling lately. Drifting. I need to start doing something just for me or I may just go out of my goddamn mind. I'm tired of feeling like I'm becoming dumber and dumber as each year passes. I need the structure of school and the ability to learn more. I want to get going instead of stagnating. The biggest problem I have is that I don't want to go back to my undergrad professors and beg for recommendations. I know I need to. I just don't want to. I know I could easily do the graduate degree and the school is like... an hour and a half away from here. I don't know if I could handle it as a commute, but I don't think they will let me tele-commute or even learn via internet. I really need to do something though. Unfortunately, the university here in town specializes in engineering and agriculture. I hate small town America. I've even been considering trying to go across the river to Iowa for school, but Dubuque has a whole crapload of nothing.

I don't know if I would recommend a music degree to anyone, if they asked. I understand the passion and the love, but in this country, you NEED a paycheck. Hanging out on public assistance is really frowned upon and your value as a citizen correlates directly with how much money you can make. I hate that we can't just up and move. I hate that. I understand that the boy-child needs stability and I'm trying to provide that for him. I just need to find a way to express myself. I really need that. I don't have the education or resources necessary to do a major research project on some kind of music topic. There is a part of me that wonders if it would be possible to help out at the high school, but I feel so badly shattering the dreams of the kids who really don't have what it takes to be professional performers. They could easily teach, but some of them... I'm kind of appalled at their teacher for encouraging them so much instead of guiding them.

But I digress. Eventually, I'm going to have to figure this out. I just really don't know if I want the answers.

Enough about you, let's talk about me

I learned about a new personality disorder this month. Not one that I have, but rather one that explains the whole of my existence. Ever have that one person who you constantly try to please over and over and get no where? Or if you succeed, they latch on to some other deficiency that you may or may not have? Yeah. That's what we call a narcissist. It's always about them and screw the rest of you assholes. Kind of like Julia Roberts.

I wasn't thrilled to realize that I'd been raised by one, but it was one of those moments where every thing just slipped right into place. I'm working through it, with the help of a therapist who was genuinely ecstatic when I told her I had figured it out. There's quite a large community of "survivors" out there. I don't really see myself as a survivor. I just see it as I had a kind of shitty childhood when it came to my emotional upbringing and I'm trying to figure it out. Sad thing is, I wonder if my mother had a mother just like her. It certainly would explain a lot.

I've been jumping between anger and sadness with this. I'm angry because of what happened and sad about what didn't happen. Or so it would seem thus far. Eventually, I will get through this grieving process and thankfully, one of my family members has been kind enough to let me adopt her as a kind of mom figure. I've needed it and the only problem I've had with it is worrying that I'm imposing or annoying her. But apparently, that's normal for daughters of narcissistic moms. Today, I'm neither sad nor angry. Today, I pity her. I try to make excuses for her, but it helps no one. Things were the way they were and now I have a mountain of emotions that I've supressed that desperately need to be dealt with. Today is just one day and I'm only one person. It will be okay and one day, this will be behind me. I just wonder what that will look like.

Depression Lies

I've done a lot of reading throughout my time as a sufferer of depression and no where have I found the immense amount of support that I have received online. I've discovered that some of my favorite people on the planet have issues very similar to mine and if ever they wanted to get together and have a drink, I would jump at the opportunity.

I often forget that depression tells horrible little lies that one by one deplete my defences and ability to stave off a severe bout of the illness. Little lies that at first are so ridiculous that I laugh at them initially, but slowly they start to make me take pause and consider them. Of course Liam and Sara are embarrassed and ashamed of me. Why wouldn't they be? Sara's family isn't really MY family. They only take pity on me. Etc etc etc. These are all lies that most of the time, I know are untrue. Right now though, I look at them and think, you know, I might not be too far off. I won't get in to all the gory details because, there's really no point and all it will do is perpetuate these lies that I'm trying like hell to ignore. Some days are so much easier than others. Some days I have to remember my many mantras that get me through these horrible moments.

You is kind.
You is smart.
You is important.

And when all else fails:
Just keep swimming.

what in the world could that be?

I’m a really awkward person. Not in the adorable Zooey Deschanel look how quirky I am kind of way, but in the more disturbing girl-in-the-back-of-the-classroom-who-eats-her-hair kind of way. Also, I totally went through a hair eating phase. Not like the frightening cases you hear about on tv where a teenaged girl has like 20lbs of hair removed from her stomach, just a general nervous habit. I get nervous in crowds really easily. My mother refuses to believe this because as a small child I would often walk up to complete strangers and start conversations. It’s a miracle I was never kidnapped and disemboweled. I just really don’t like large groups of people. Especially if I’m expected to socialize with them. Dear God help me if I have to socialize. That being said, I am dreading my upcoming wedding. I know I said in my last post that Sara and I are a dysfunctional married couple, but in truth, we’re not even married yet. We just fight, bicker and pick on each other like an 80 year old couple with varying levels of dementia. Our wedding is going to be small. I have had panic attacks worrying about how much of my insanely large extended family is going to be offended when they don’t get an invitation, but it’s not my fault my grandparents were fond of pro-creation. I think when you really think about it, I’m pretty sure most of us are really fond of the act of pro-creation. Besides, I can’t get too pissed about it because that negates my existence, which means that if you’re reading this, and I don’t exist, you’re hallucinating. And if you’re hallucinating, you’re either on really good drugs, or you have a brain tumor. I choose to believe it’s drugs.

Shit. I just forgot what I was talking about. Awkwardness. I guess I just subscribed to the belief that I was just a black sheep. And then I went to high school where everyone thought they were a black sheep. So then, I figured that if everyone’s a black sheep, I must be a white sheep. And that led to fears I was turning into a white supremacist. So then I decided I was a drunken unicorn and my identity issues were solved because at least a drunken unicorn is unique. I spent way too much of my adolescence trying to adopt a personality that would make others happy. In fact, I still do that shit. Kind of makes me wonder if I’ve ever been honest with anyone about who I am. Except for you guys. You guys are the people I trust. It’s the people I KNOW I don’t want to be honest with. Those people are assholes.

Honestly, it wasn’t until about a year ago, when I discovered the drunken ramblings of Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess for those of you paying attention, that I decided that if people couldn’t deal with my honesty, I didn’t need them around. Her struggles with anxiety and depression made me feel less alone as I struggled with depression and ADHD. For the record, I am not hyperactive in the sense that you’re thinking. I don’t run around smearing glue on shit and even if I did, I’d forget about it before I got to pour the glitter on. I’m just easily distracted. I don’t know if that’s obvious. It really should be if you know me. I’ve been known to get lost in shopping malls because I saw something pretty and decided I had to look at it only to discover that the people I was with didn’t even notice I was gone until they were on the next floor and I was almost in tears because I was positive they were going to leave me behind, thankful that they had finally ditched the weirdo who couldn’t even finish a thought before jumping onto the next topic. Seriously. I started blogging partly because I thought it would be a great exercise in trying to focus. Unfortunately, I have like a month’s worth of entries waiting to be posted because I just couldn’t stop thinking about random shit when I was typing. Shit. I’m off-topic again. Sonofabitch. Jenny! She has helped me to see that my awkwardness is something to be embraced. It is something wonderful and fantastic and what’s better than that, I am NOT alone. There are thousands of hair eaters like me who understand me. Not that they’ve found my blog yet, but at least I know they are THERE.

In which I nearly die from swine flu

In the fall of 2009 the entire world freaked out over the swine flu. We weren’t supposed to call it swine flu though because it was feared that people would stop eating pork due to the misconception that this strain of flu actually came from a goddamn pig. The P.C. term was H1N1. I still think someone fucked a pig and forgot to shower the pig beforehand or themselves afterwards. Either way, beastiality is generally frowned upon in our society. That Thanksgiving, as the American nation prepared to go shopping, my best friend, Sara, and I found ourselves victim to the cruel bitch that was swine flu. Miraculously, Liam did not catch this. I have no fucking idea how in the hell that happened, but perhaps whatever benevolent force in the universe that exists thought, for one shining glorious moment, swine flu was about all I could handle when coupled with Thanksgiving. Not that I had any major gatherings to attend to. That was never something I really enjoyed. I would invite whichever of my friends had no where else to go for the holiday to come to my and Sara’s shitty mold infested townhome in West Des Moines’ privileged poor sector. Unfortunately… or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, it was just Sara and I that year. Once Liam was out the door on Wednesday evening, I went and started preparing dinner whilst feeling somewhat nauseous, warm and fighting a raging headache – all of which I just assumed was par the course for dealing with my asshole ex-husband. By the time Thanksgiving dawned, I had been throwing up most of the night and diarrhea had kept me wondering which end of me had earned the privilege of the toilet and which one was going to be dangling precariously over the side of the bathtub. Thanks to the frequent flushing of the toilet down the hall, I had an inkling, I wasn’t alone in my misery.

Being the stubborn WASP that I was raised to be, I still insisted that the Thanksgiving feast of Cornish game hens, sweet potato casserole, green bean bake and pumpkin pie needed to be cooked and that to admit defeat to something as stupid as the flu was not only weak, but damn near un-American. After getting the various foodstuffs into the oven, I collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, praying that I had the strength to make it through this holiday with my wasp-y smile still intact. Unfortunately, it is at about this point that the sweating began and I had to be grateful for the foresight I’d had to not only bring my heavy comforter downstairs with me that morning, but to also collapse close enough to the dvd player and the Netflix pile to be able to throw something in to pass the time. Just as I used up the last of my energy looking for the goddamn remote and pondered whether or not I should be concerned about replenishing liquids or just be grateful I hadn’t thrown up inside the hen carcasses, Sara came down fully dressed and really upset.

“I have to go to fucking work.”

“You’re fucking kidding”

“No, some asshole called in sick, so now I have to spend the next 2 hours trying not to throw up on people.”

I gave her a look of what I thought might be sympathy. I’m not really sure though, to be honest. In fact, a lot of this is a blur. Anyways, I think I was more pissed off than anything else. Here I was, DYING, and she was about to run off to work. I was trying to make thanksgiving nice for her, and she was leaving me in my goddamn hour of need to go tend to people she couldn’t even talk to me about thanks to HIPAA. Thankfully, the food still had about four hours left to cook, so, in theory, I could pass out and when I woke up, she’d be there. My dependency on her was a little disturbing and I should have figured out then that we were destined to become the dysfunctional married couple we are today, but I digress.

I woke up to the credits rolling on some movie I can’t for the life of me recall, Sara running up the stairs to throw up in the bathroom and a kitchen timer going off. Pretty decent timing. I heaved myself off of the floor and checked on various food. The hens were ready to go in the oven and lifting them off the counter to carry them the two steps to the oven was an act of endurance I knew I wasn’t equal to, but still somehow managed it. When Sara came downstairs, I was curled up in the fetal position on the couch with a mixing bowl cradled in my arms. She looked at me with sympathy and asked if I needed anything. I think I may have muttered something about the next movie, but I don’t recall. All I know is that the next two hours of my life were the most upsetting hours I have ever spent. EVER. The movie was called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I have a thing for holocaust movies. Maybe it’s my affinity for Judiaica that has now become so strong I’m working on becoming one of the chosen people, but on that day, I wished to Christ I hadn’t ever started down this path of intrigue in the Holocaust. Most holocaust movies end on a sad, but hopeful note. This one did not. It involved two adorable boys befriending one another from across a barbed wire fence, until the one outside the fence decides it’s time to go over (well, actually, under) to play with his new best friend, who kindly gives him matching striped pajamas to blend in with. Did I mention that this newly attired boy’s father was an SS officer? I should have. I think it was important. The boys run off to take a shower with the rest of the society of striped clothing enthusiasts and I sat there saying, out loud (I swear I was only muttering this, but Sara swears I was screaming at the tv),oh dear God, they wouldn’t. They would never do this. No way. The dad is gonna burst in and save the kid at the last minute. SPOILER ALERT. He doesn’t. He finds out way to late and goes to the fence, finds his kid’s clothing in a heap, runs to the camp and the kid is already in a fire heap. Fin.

Yeah, that’s how they ended this movie. God. Damn. Happy Thanksgiving. I bet you forgot that this was a Thanksgiving story. Needless to say, I was traumatized. Here was a movie that actually succeeded in making Schindler’s List look like a Mel Brooks comedy by comparison. Then, the kitchen timer went off and I somehow managed to lift this 750lb pan of two Cornish game hens out of the oven along with all the aforementioned side dishes. By the time, the food was divvied up, I was exhausted and looking at a roasted carcass and various vegetables was making me feel sick again. I took two bites, looked at Sara and said, “I just. fucking. can’t.” and put my plate in the kitchen, climbed the twelve miles of stairs to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. I awoke what felt like 4 days later, but in reality was more like a half hour, to find Sara lying next to me. When we both were finally conscious again, I asked her why she didn’t crash in her room, she simply said that she didn’t want me to choke on my vomit and die. In that moment, I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone and then I threw up on the carpet.

Somebody sweet to talk to

I have a lot of friends who are teachers. I even have a mother in law who is a teacher. That being said, I have an enormous amount of respect for these people because the idea of spending even an hour with a large band of small children, preteens or asshole high school students makes me sad that corporal punishment is not only not admissible in a school, but also illegal. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe in hitting kids unless it's a last resort, but seeing as how most parents nowadays are more interested in being friends with their kids than actually parenting them, someone needs to show them that there are serious consequences for fucking with the wrong person. Namely, me. I don't suffer fools or assholes easily and my quick temper is only saved by the fact that I know that it is best controlled when situations can be avoided.

However, I do have my moments when I wish I had become a high school English teacher. I love books and watching people embrace the joy of reading. I love Shakespeare and research papers. However, the moment that the slacker asshole in the third row dared to ask the question "does spelling count?" because he hadn't bothered to read the syllabus, I would have to kiss my career good bye purely because I wouldn't be able to stop myself with just a simple yes. That misguided youth would spend the next week of his life trying to dislodge an edition of Shakespeare's plays out of his bleeding rectum and I would would be acquainting myself with the state's penal system. Bet he'd never ask the question again though.

How is it that we, as a society, have gotten so lazy that we can't be bothered to worry about spelling. I get grammar. That shit is hard, but man, spelling?! Really? Do you really care so little about how you present yourself to the world that you can't be bothered to know the difference between grate and great? This whole mentality of "close enough" is bullshit. Learn how to spell. Learn how to distinguish antonyms! This is important! Seriously! How is it that we let these kids skate through without educating them, or worse, not allowing their teachers to educate them properly because they're afraid they'll lose their jobs because Johnny and Cindy had to stay in second or tenth grade another year? They should be socially shamed because they didn't work hard or their parents used the teacher as a glorified babysitter. People are so fond of saying that you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, but that certainly doesn't apply to teachers. It's their fault that the students aren't listening. Fuck that! My kid does his homework and I sit there with him until that shit is done. If he doesn't understand it, I try to help him. If he still doesn't get it, we try to find someone who can help, and if none of that works, it is HIS responsibility to get hell from his teacher. Stop blaming teachers because you can't be bothered to take an active role in your child's education or upbringing. I understand that there are indeed some awful teachers out there, but they are in the minority. Most teachers care about their students and don't deserve a pay cut or to be fired just because your dumbass kid can't unglue himself from AdventureTime long enough to actually learn something. I'd get in to the concept of teaching to the test, but bitch ain't got time for that.