I've been on a journey. Not an icy, slippery hike to the top of Mt. Whatsoever kind of journey. Not a time-skipping, Back to the Future kind of journey. More of an "Oh! That's who I am," kind of journey. A bright light bulb that has just begun shining kind of journey. I've spent months getting reunited with myself. I've rediscovered things I always thought to be true about myself, but lost along the cobblestone path of life. I've come to grips with ideas that I've spent years trying to disprove. I've even learned new things that I don't recall ever realizing in the first place. My journey is an internal discovery of myself and those surrounding me. And it's been everything I could possibly wish it to be.
As a child, I remember truly respecting certain ideas of my dad's. Not many, as he is a stubborn, closed minded, grown child of the Forties, but definitely some. More specifically, I respected that he didn't lie. He was always honest and unapologetic. He was who he was, and nothing anybody thought or said put a dent in his attitude or self-esteem. At least, not on the outside. But, in hindsight, any of that was probably shielded by the unforgiving alcoholism. Needless to say, I held on to the idea that "I am who I am" and nothing or no one could break that. And I never felt a need to hide anything, or lie, thanks to this guardian wall.
As a teenager, these ideals inherited from my father stuck with me like a patch that was superglued to my sleeve. I had focused so much on these ideas for years, most likely so I didn't actually have to deal with any of the dysfunction that surrounding me, but probably even moreso I didn't have to deal with how dysfunctional the dysfunction made me. It became my velvet ribbon, so as to tie my head on straight in order to make it through day to day life. It was these lucrative years that I focused on how being independent and self sufficient made me feel, as opposed to being dependent on someone else for my means, esteem, and even sanity. Back then I believed I was smart, creative and talented. These feelings somehow turned to mush and absorbed into the mist of the daily routine once I became a young adult.
At some point, for the sake of anonymity, my dysfunction moved to the fore-front when it was pushed and prodded by other people's insecurities. I lost my common sense, it seemed. Another emphasized needed quality by my dad. I lost my self esteem. I lost my beliefs about myself. I disappeared.
I've had mountains and valleys of growth and recovery over the last couple of years. It's been rocky. Foggy. Clear. Humid. The odyssey, in its entirety, has been one of all seasons and storms. All silences and calms. And the last few months have emerged as the pith of my journey. I've regained my personal independence and been challenged intellectually. I've learned my position among others and how to play well together. I've overcome insecurities and learned that I desire to trudge forward even further to see exactly how far I can go.
I am who I am. I'm not ashamed of it. I am smart. I am creative. I am talented. Each of these to an extent I'm unsure of. Maybe ever growing. I enjoy my alone time - what writer doesn't?? But there's more. I'm dark. Not in the Twilight kind of dark. Not in the emo-goth kind of dark. More in the spooky, passionate kind of dark. The dark that is overwhelmed by light most of the time, but waits there in the shadows, for the perfect time to take over and compel. I'm also funny. Not in the always entertaining physical hilarity Chris Farley is so well known for. And not because I'm awkward. But because I just happen to be genuinely witty and enjoy, myself, to laugh. At least, that's what I tell myself.
All of these newly re-realizations are evolving me into the person I know I was always supposed to be. The person I've been told I was supposed to be. The person I've fought off trying to become. And I am inspired to see what new lands this journey will continue to take me to. I am inspired to see what kind of creativity will emerge. I'm inspired to see what kind of sister I will be. I'm inspired.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Surf City, USA revised
And here it is revised:
I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.
The sun would rise early, burning off the dew on the grass and leaving a smell the color of clear mixed with the chirping of the early bird. It would shine through the large, deep emerald leaves of our avocado tree and straight into my bedroom window and heated my pillow. I would watch the tiny, brown sparrows land on the thick telephone wire directly in my sight.
By the time I crawled out of bed and finally made it outside, the air was heavy with the stench of salty smog. The sun shone so clearly in the cloudless, baby blue sky that the only option seemed to be spending the entire day amongst the dirty, yellow, sandy beach watching the aggressive waves crash repeatedly on shore. So, off on my bike I rode!
It was a straight shot to the beach, on my bike. Mostly a warm and breezy, downhill ride, until the ride home, of course. But that was never a thought until the hill started to burn my calves and make my thighs feel like they were popping straight out of my skin. There was rarely much traffic along the ride to the sand, so it made the trip very solemn and introspective. I was able to really think, with the start of a sunburn on my skin and the soft swell of wind due to the speed of my bike blowing through my hair.
Once I arrived at the beach and locked my bike on a dull metal rack among a rocky parking lot, I was at home. The bright yellow sun mixed with the clear blue sky seemed a Crayola yellow-green hue against the deep blue, infinite ocean. The sweaty, gritty volleyball players littered the beach like popcorn crumbs litter the rows of a theater whose lights just came up after the credits. The air now reeked of the burned skin of a hotdog mixed with the charred grit of ground beef.
This is when I felt most at home. The smell of roasting beef with the heat of an iron on my back. I would lay my towel awkwardly on the grainy, white sand, because every time I try to lay it straight, a tiny whiff of wind would spark two corners and sand would settle on top as if it were the one laying out for a tan. But I laid on the sand anyway, because after five minutes of baking in this oven, I would be covered in it. I would sleep while the determined seagulls and matted pigeons would fight over the food wrappers that sailed helplessly from the garbage cans and littered the beach between the sunbathers. I would dream about being somewhere tropical. Somewhere there was a careless freedom of no responsibility mixed with tropical scents and an option of a no-limit nap.
When I awoke, I was the shade of a lobster. The barbecue grill smell was replaced by smoke and coal, as most people left on the beach were beginning their nights with bonfires. The sky was the color of ruby grapefruit mixed with blueberry all against a pitch black ocean, still slamming heavily like a judge’s gavel. The volleyball courts were empty, as if it were under quarantine, though there were still some people floating in the water. There was a faint sound of bass in the air, the compilation of tens of groups of young people gathered, almost spiritually around the grimy bonfire pits, pumping music through the minute speakers of individual boom boxes. That, mixed with the incessant slamming of waves, and the spurts of screams and talk, made for an almost gentle hum. The kind of hum that, if you had the time, could rock you into soft daydream where time would lose validity and only the resurrection of the sun could ignite playful energy back into you. I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, not only would I be reprimanded like a toddler screaming incoherently in public, I might also get lost in the hum.
So onto the mileage back home. I would gather my now hot bicycle from the gravely rack. It was warm from spending all day baking in the sun, like a turkey roasting for hours in the warm oven on Thanksgiving. I would mount the bike and mentally prepare my mind for the uphill climb, that lost its importance the opposite direction from the excitement of the anticipation of the beach and the easy downhill motion. Immediately, there’s a fire that travels from my feet all the way to my hips, making me imagine for a moment that there was another easier method homeward, until the blinding, white lights of the now vehicle littered streets woke my imagination into reality.
As ascended the top of the last hill, I sighed with relief that I made it home. My once burning legs had numbed, and I knew they would ache the next morning when the peaceful journey would begin again. The sky was now a deep indigo, still warm from the twelve hours of beating sunlight, with one or two tiny white stars in view. The tract homes set dark and methodically against the deep purple sky. And the only hint of life were the lit bulbs on the bustling cars and trucks. It was time to rest my head on the same soft, foamy pillow in which the chirping sparrows and the early yawns of the sun awoke me hours earlier. I couldn’t
I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.
The sun would rise early, burning off the dew on the grass and leaving a smell the color of clear mixed with the chirping of the early bird. It would shine through the large, deep emerald leaves of our avocado tree and straight into my bedroom window and heated my pillow. I would watch the tiny, brown sparrows land on the thick telephone wire directly in my sight.
By the time I crawled out of bed and finally made it outside, the air was heavy with the stench of salty smog. The sun shone so clearly in the cloudless, baby blue sky that the only option seemed to be spending the entire day amongst the dirty, yellow, sandy beach watching the aggressive waves crash repeatedly on shore. So, off on my bike I rode!
It was a straight shot to the beach, on my bike. Mostly a warm and breezy, downhill ride, until the ride home, of course. But that was never a thought until the hill started to burn my calves and make my thighs feel like they were popping straight out of my skin. There was rarely much traffic along the ride to the sand, so it made the trip very solemn and introspective. I was able to really think, with the start of a sunburn on my skin and the soft swell of wind due to the speed of my bike blowing through my hair.
Once I arrived at the beach and locked my bike on a dull metal rack among a rocky parking lot, I was at home. The bright yellow sun mixed with the clear blue sky seemed a Crayola yellow-green hue against the deep blue, infinite ocean. The sweaty, gritty volleyball players littered the beach like popcorn crumbs litter the rows of a theater whose lights just came up after the credits. The air now reeked of the burned skin of a hotdog mixed with the charred grit of ground beef.
This is when I felt most at home. The smell of roasting beef with the heat of an iron on my back. I would lay my towel awkwardly on the grainy, white sand, because every time I try to lay it straight, a tiny whiff of wind would spark two corners and sand would settle on top as if it were the one laying out for a tan. But I laid on the sand anyway, because after five minutes of baking in this oven, I would be covered in it. I would sleep while the determined seagulls and matted pigeons would fight over the food wrappers that sailed helplessly from the garbage cans and littered the beach between the sunbathers. I would dream about being somewhere tropical. Somewhere there was a careless freedom of no responsibility mixed with tropical scents and an option of a no-limit nap.
When I awoke, I was the shade of a lobster. The barbecue grill smell was replaced by smoke and coal, as most people left on the beach were beginning their nights with bonfires. The sky was the color of ruby grapefruit mixed with blueberry all against a pitch black ocean, still slamming heavily like a judge’s gavel. The volleyball courts were empty, as if it were under quarantine, though there were still some people floating in the water. There was a faint sound of bass in the air, the compilation of tens of groups of young people gathered, almost spiritually around the grimy bonfire pits, pumping music through the minute speakers of individual boom boxes. That, mixed with the incessant slamming of waves, and the spurts of screams and talk, made for an almost gentle hum. The kind of hum that, if you had the time, could rock you into soft daydream where time would lose validity and only the resurrection of the sun could ignite playful energy back into you. I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, not only would I be reprimanded like a toddler screaming incoherently in public, I might also get lost in the hum.
So onto the mileage back home. I would gather my now hot bicycle from the gravely rack. It was warm from spending all day baking in the sun, like a turkey roasting for hours in the warm oven on Thanksgiving. I would mount the bike and mentally prepare my mind for the uphill climb, that lost its importance the opposite direction from the excitement of the anticipation of the beach and the easy downhill motion. Immediately, there’s a fire that travels from my feet all the way to my hips, making me imagine for a moment that there was another easier method homeward, until the blinding, white lights of the now vehicle littered streets woke my imagination into reality.
As ascended the top of the last hill, I sighed with relief that I made it home. My once burning legs had numbed, and I knew they would ache the next morning when the peaceful journey would begin again. The sky was now a deep indigo, still warm from the twelve hours of beating sunlight, with one or two tiny white stars in view. The tract homes set dark and methodically against the deep purple sky. And the only hint of life were the lit bulbs on the bustling cars and trucks. It was time to rest my head on the same soft, foamy pillow in which the chirping sparrows and the early yawns of the sun awoke me hours earlier. I couldn’t
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Surf City, USA
I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.
I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.
My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.
Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.
As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.
These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.
I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.
I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.
I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.
I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.
My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.
Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.
As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.
These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.
I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.
I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.
I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Against All Odds
Yes, another hiatus. This time I have an excuse. I have plenty ideas, so that's not it. I need serious therapy, so that's not it either. No. Instead, I've finally gotten out. I've gotten out of the toxicity. I've gotten out of being the victim. I've gotten out of the "tolerable" hell I've been in for so long that it felt normal.
The camel's back got broken. And believe me, I think everyone knew it was going to happen. There was that typical build-up. The kind they teach you to use when writing a good story. The kind I've seen over and over again, if not in my own situation, in those of my troubled loved ones. Money was tight. I'd become physically healthier than I'd been in a while. I got my own job. Gasp. The stress of all of that is maddening, right?? Well, if you are a person with very little self esteem, a drug and alcohol problem, colleagues and/or family and friends enabling, and quite possibly an undiagnosed mental illness, it is.
Somehow, some financial stress mixed with my own gaining independence became a devil of infinite proportions. Because, no one else in the universe had financial stress. No one else knows what it's like to give up a little. To save. To live like, well, a poor person for a little while. Of course, I'm being sarcastic, but sadly, this is how he felt. At least that's what I'm assuming to make my own monster seem much more human.
Needless to say, I don't have all the details. The Big Man and I stopped talking about real things years ago. I've tried, to no avail. He, I guess, just doesn't know how it works. The whole talking thing. Instead, I find 12 random shot bottles of vodka in his trash at work. He comes home from work reeking of booze, barely able to walk straight, refusing to admit to one tiny taste of anything alcoholic. He's irate at the thought of me talking on my phone. Because, I've never had to deal with any of these circumstances before. I'm sure I'm dumb enough to believe he was just tired, and overworked. At a "job" where he's self-employed and I've witnessed his mostly lack-of-work first hand.
No, I'm sorry. This isn't my first rodeo. And even if it were, I've been to God-Knows-How-Many growing up. We'll call this the twelfth straw. And yes, I'm completely comfortable documenting this, for one: this is MY platform. Where I can say what I want; you can judge me or not; we breathe in and move on. And two: out of 8 years and multiple pleadings to read my blog and tell me what he thought, he'd been interested enough to do it never. Okay, he tried once and got less than halfway through and told me my writing was much to textbook style and that no one would want to read it. So amongst everything, I'm quite comfortable documenting this.
So, in accurate form and grace, the lying and paranoid accusations grew. Obviously I was dating a trainer. Why else would I go to the gym. And obviously there was more payoff than just health, I must be dating other random men. And obviously I'm having orgies because I'm working somewhere away from him and being happier and more independent than I have been in ages. It makes sense. So instead of taking these insecurities and using them as anything remotely close to a positive as he could; say...working out to thin down, working out to clear his mind, becoming healthy to be in control of his financial decisions, etc; why not drink himself to oblivion daily. But I don't think that's the extent of it. Although he was angry enough with just alcohol, he began smoking an immense amount of marijuana, which generally, in my knowledge, will calm you down and mellow you out, neither of which was the case. But, he was left to his own devices for 8 hours out of the day now. No more babysitter, and we all know, when the cats' away, the mice will play. His behavior began to emulate that of which he had when I met him. Back when I found out he wasn't just unbalanced, but was also using meth.
Now is not the time for lectures, folks. I'm the first one to say good, clean people don't stay with druggies unless they do some themselves. That is the furthest thing from my case. You'll see, from my previous blogs, the addict lifestyle is what I was raised in. It took so much from me. Loved ones. Self esteem. My life. I didn't have to do drugs to feel it's anguish. I already knew it very well. And this was why, in good political fashion, it was my mission to clean up every druggie, one by one, and prove to them and to the world that they can do it and that I can help! Got me pretty far, I'd say. Two kids and right smack dab back where I started.
But back to the point. This series of unhealthy events led up to a Monday night, much like that of many other nights. He's in charge of the kids while I do something for myself. Said something being going to the gym like I do every Monday. And the five-minutes-ago guy who wanted a hug turned into a paranoid asshole, recklessly trying to prove that I'm cheating on him, all in front of the kids. Mind you, this happens nearly daily. I explain, as always, that this is something we can talk about later after I get back and the kids go to bed, but he doesn't back down. He persists, in fact. He knows how to push every button, until I'm defending myself from these made up actions. It's literally crazy. But finally, I leave for the gym, with fear in my heart that those were the hands of an incapable parent in charge of my children. And I was right.
I got home to an excessively inebriated person, blaring my running playlist (mostly club-quality songs)at 9:20pm with two very tired but very awake children in the living room. This was the norm on Mondays and Wednesdays. He had apparently forgotten how to put the kids to bed. And so instead of questioning him and his lack of parental skills, "why don't I be a mother and put the kids to bed??" And that was just the beginning of a very steep spiral downwards.
After ignoring my pleas to stop until the kids were in bed, I was forced to call in backup. This is where it turns ugly. To keep it more short and sweet, this guy went ape on everyone. Straw number: enough. The camel collapsed. I took the kids to my neighbor's, and called the police so I could gather some things. Of course I got a plethora of obnoxious and victimized, abusive messages. I'm used to it. But what I also got was the courage to stay as far away from this situation as humanly possible.
I know it's still early to say I've beaten the odds, because statistically, the majority of women in this type of situation go back, but I'm determined. I don't love him. I don't need him. And I don't want him tearing me down, in general and in front of my kids. I always hoped he'd get well, but I also always knew he was sick. I actually still hope he gets well because, in my opinion, children need both parents. But only when he's able to be such.
So a week down, and I'm feeling disgusting. I feel like I'm living out of a car. I feel like a slob. I haven't gone to the gym. I haven't done anything. I haven't slept. The kids are sick. They are displaced. They are tired. I've barely eaten. I have no idea how I'm going to do it financially. But, through it all, I'm positive. I know I'm doing the right thing. I know the future holds great things for me and my kids. I know it could be a lot worse. And I know the lack of comfort is building my strength and character so I can be a better parent and a better person.
I was given the idea to do a bucket list, which is something I'll elaborate more on next time, and immediately wondered what grandiose things I wanted to add to it. Still, I haven't started it, but I have thought long and hard. My bucket list so far consists of: getting my own apartment for my kids and me; buying an economical car for us; relinquishing and maintaining meaningful relationships with friends and family whom I respect and are positive forces in my life; proving to my boss and myself that I'm capable and able to excel in what I do, even if it's out of my comfort zone; and finally, basically be able to financially maintain a healthy and well-groomed house full of happy babies and a happy mama. I think after that, the other aspects of my bucket list will fall into place.
Do not misinterpret this posting. I am not lacking in self esteem. I'm not sad, in most meanings of the term. I am extremely proud of myself, and I know that these sloppy days of displacement are temporary, and that I am smart and capable enough to pull right out of this like a jet pilot at an air show. It's just a loop in life, and I can't wait to be the happy, laid back, fun-loving person I have repressed for so long. I'm free.
The camel's back got broken. And believe me, I think everyone knew it was going to happen. There was that typical build-up. The kind they teach you to use when writing a good story. The kind I've seen over and over again, if not in my own situation, in those of my troubled loved ones. Money was tight. I'd become physically healthier than I'd been in a while. I got my own job. Gasp. The stress of all of that is maddening, right?? Well, if you are a person with very little self esteem, a drug and alcohol problem, colleagues and/or family and friends enabling, and quite possibly an undiagnosed mental illness, it is.
Somehow, some financial stress mixed with my own gaining independence became a devil of infinite proportions. Because, no one else in the universe had financial stress. No one else knows what it's like to give up a little. To save. To live like, well, a poor person for a little while. Of course, I'm being sarcastic, but sadly, this is how he felt. At least that's what I'm assuming to make my own monster seem much more human.
Needless to say, I don't have all the details. The Big Man and I stopped talking about real things years ago. I've tried, to no avail. He, I guess, just doesn't know how it works. The whole talking thing. Instead, I find 12 random shot bottles of vodka in his trash at work. He comes home from work reeking of booze, barely able to walk straight, refusing to admit to one tiny taste of anything alcoholic. He's irate at the thought of me talking on my phone. Because, I've never had to deal with any of these circumstances before. I'm sure I'm dumb enough to believe he was just tired, and overworked. At a "job" where he's self-employed and I've witnessed his mostly lack-of-work first hand.
No, I'm sorry. This isn't my first rodeo. And even if it were, I've been to God-Knows-How-Many growing up. We'll call this the twelfth straw. And yes, I'm completely comfortable documenting this, for one: this is MY platform. Where I can say what I want; you can judge me or not; we breathe in and move on. And two: out of 8 years and multiple pleadings to read my blog and tell me what he thought, he'd been interested enough to do it never. Okay, he tried once and got less than halfway through and told me my writing was much to textbook style and that no one would want to read it. So amongst everything, I'm quite comfortable documenting this.
So, in accurate form and grace, the lying and paranoid accusations grew. Obviously I was dating a trainer. Why else would I go to the gym. And obviously there was more payoff than just health, I must be dating other random men. And obviously I'm having orgies because I'm working somewhere away from him and being happier and more independent than I have been in ages. It makes sense. So instead of taking these insecurities and using them as anything remotely close to a positive as he could; say...working out to thin down, working out to clear his mind, becoming healthy to be in control of his financial decisions, etc; why not drink himself to oblivion daily. But I don't think that's the extent of it. Although he was angry enough with just alcohol, he began smoking an immense amount of marijuana, which generally, in my knowledge, will calm you down and mellow you out, neither of which was the case. But, he was left to his own devices for 8 hours out of the day now. No more babysitter, and we all know, when the cats' away, the mice will play. His behavior began to emulate that of which he had when I met him. Back when I found out he wasn't just unbalanced, but was also using meth.
Now is not the time for lectures, folks. I'm the first one to say good, clean people don't stay with druggies unless they do some themselves. That is the furthest thing from my case. You'll see, from my previous blogs, the addict lifestyle is what I was raised in. It took so much from me. Loved ones. Self esteem. My life. I didn't have to do drugs to feel it's anguish. I already knew it very well. And this was why, in good political fashion, it was my mission to clean up every druggie, one by one, and prove to them and to the world that they can do it and that I can help! Got me pretty far, I'd say. Two kids and right smack dab back where I started.
But back to the point. This series of unhealthy events led up to a Monday night, much like that of many other nights. He's in charge of the kids while I do something for myself. Said something being going to the gym like I do every Monday. And the five-minutes-ago guy who wanted a hug turned into a paranoid asshole, recklessly trying to prove that I'm cheating on him, all in front of the kids. Mind you, this happens nearly daily. I explain, as always, that this is something we can talk about later after I get back and the kids go to bed, but he doesn't back down. He persists, in fact. He knows how to push every button, until I'm defending myself from these made up actions. It's literally crazy. But finally, I leave for the gym, with fear in my heart that those were the hands of an incapable parent in charge of my children. And I was right.
I got home to an excessively inebriated person, blaring my running playlist (mostly club-quality songs)at 9:20pm with two very tired but very awake children in the living room. This was the norm on Mondays and Wednesdays. He had apparently forgotten how to put the kids to bed. And so instead of questioning him and his lack of parental skills, "why don't I be a mother and put the kids to bed??" And that was just the beginning of a very steep spiral downwards.
After ignoring my pleas to stop until the kids were in bed, I was forced to call in backup. This is where it turns ugly. To keep it more short and sweet, this guy went ape on everyone. Straw number: enough. The camel collapsed. I took the kids to my neighbor's, and called the police so I could gather some things. Of course I got a plethora of obnoxious and victimized, abusive messages. I'm used to it. But what I also got was the courage to stay as far away from this situation as humanly possible.
I know it's still early to say I've beaten the odds, because statistically, the majority of women in this type of situation go back, but I'm determined. I don't love him. I don't need him. And I don't want him tearing me down, in general and in front of my kids. I always hoped he'd get well, but I also always knew he was sick. I actually still hope he gets well because, in my opinion, children need both parents. But only when he's able to be such.
So a week down, and I'm feeling disgusting. I feel like I'm living out of a car. I feel like a slob. I haven't gone to the gym. I haven't done anything. I haven't slept. The kids are sick. They are displaced. They are tired. I've barely eaten. I have no idea how I'm going to do it financially. But, through it all, I'm positive. I know I'm doing the right thing. I know the future holds great things for me and my kids. I know it could be a lot worse. And I know the lack of comfort is building my strength and character so I can be a better parent and a better person.
I was given the idea to do a bucket list, which is something I'll elaborate more on next time, and immediately wondered what grandiose things I wanted to add to it. Still, I haven't started it, but I have thought long and hard. My bucket list so far consists of: getting my own apartment for my kids and me; buying an economical car for us; relinquishing and maintaining meaningful relationships with friends and family whom I respect and are positive forces in my life; proving to my boss and myself that I'm capable and able to excel in what I do, even if it's out of my comfort zone; and finally, basically be able to financially maintain a healthy and well-groomed house full of happy babies and a happy mama. I think after that, the other aspects of my bucket list will fall into place.
Do not misinterpret this posting. I am not lacking in self esteem. I'm not sad, in most meanings of the term. I am extremely proud of myself, and I know that these sloppy days of displacement are temporary, and that I am smart and capable enough to pull right out of this like a jet pilot at an air show. It's just a loop in life, and I can't wait to be the happy, laid back, fun-loving person I have repressed for so long. I'm free.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Squirrels In My Pants
Disturbingly enough, I had an A-HA moment watching Phineas and Ferb today, as I'm sure most mommies have...right??!! Okay, maybe not. Maybe I was reading far to much into a kids/tween animated comedy. Anyway, you know the episode. No, not the one all about aglets. You know, the end of a shoelace. Not the one about squirrels in Candace's pants. Not the one about Rock camp where the little Indian kid feels like he may fail for the first time. Okay, I obviously watch way to much Phineas and Ferb.
It's the episode where Candace, the older sister, tries to figure out what she'll do while her brothers, who are always up to something, choose to have a "do-nothing" day. She couldn't figure out who she was if she wasn't busting her brothers. And here's where it morphs into self-reflection. When I'm not busy trying to figure out what's wrong, why it's wrong, and how to help others that this wrong is hurting, I'm confused as to what I do. I think about writing about travel, or fashion, or any of the other things that otherwise take over my brain, but then I wonder how interesting or entertaining I would sound. Thinking about it now kind of sends me into a coma.
Needless to say, I vow to figure out who I am aside of drama and dilemma in 2012. I have pronounced the year as "My Year!" My year to bitch. My year to smile. My year to travel. My year to sit on my butt. My year to do exactly what I want to do. Maybe not always, as I am a slave to my children; most willingly, but I do realize that standing up for my happiness and sanity is what will make my monkies happy. It is what will make them well adjusted. What will make them smile and respect me. And that's all I really want. I cannot wait for the New Year. And I hope many people will jump on my wagon and take this trip and share it with me!! Cheers to 2012!!
It's the episode where Candace, the older sister, tries to figure out what she'll do while her brothers, who are always up to something, choose to have a "do-nothing" day. She couldn't figure out who she was if she wasn't busting her brothers. And here's where it morphs into self-reflection. When I'm not busy trying to figure out what's wrong, why it's wrong, and how to help others that this wrong is hurting, I'm confused as to what I do. I think about writing about travel, or fashion, or any of the other things that otherwise take over my brain, but then I wonder how interesting or entertaining I would sound. Thinking about it now kind of sends me into a coma.
Needless to say, I vow to figure out who I am aside of drama and dilemma in 2012. I have pronounced the year as "My Year!" My year to bitch. My year to smile. My year to travel. My year to sit on my butt. My year to do exactly what I want to do. Maybe not always, as I am a slave to my children; most willingly, but I do realize that standing up for my happiness and sanity is what will make my monkies happy. It is what will make them well adjusted. What will make them smile and respect me. And that's all I really want. I cannot wait for the New Year. And I hope many people will jump on my wagon and take this trip and share it with me!! Cheers to 2012!!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Adrenaline Junkie
I woke up early today, as most mothers to one year olds typically do. I was bummed that I didn't get to write yesterday, because I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Basically, yesterday, similar to nearly once a week, I started to feel bad. I felt like maybe I should tell everyone how the Big Man wasn't as bad as it sometimes seems. Like I should explain that a lot of times I'm just emerging from the situation I'm blogging about, so many of my posts are driven by emotion and adrenaline. Like, my situation is really mostly normal and that everyone goes through all kinds of drama in their "relationships."
And, like always, a couple hours go by and I'm reminded why I blog in the first place. Because the good lasts mere hours, if that, and the bad is the rest of the time. My work is discredited. My effort is discredited. My being is discredited. And that is why I write. Which leads me, of course fueled by anger, disappointment, and logic, to wonder if my writing would be anything if I were actually happy. If I was with someone who actually supported my ideas. Who supported my efforts. Who supported me, period.
I do believe the Big Man doesn't want to be the psychotic, immature reactor that he is, most of the time. Until, of course, he says things like, "This is who I am," and "You knew I was crazy when you signed up for this." Doesn't sound like a person apologetic of his words and behaviors. Sounds more like a person who is quite well with the way his life is. He is used to it. He is satisfied.
But, I never signed up for anything! I got pregnant. That's it. Two of the most amazing children, ever, and I'm so proud to be their mommy. And for the most part, I remained in this situation for them. So they could have a daddy. So I could have the flexibility to stay home with them sometimes. Sadly, neither seems to happen. Daddy is rarely around, mostly because he vegges out on his computer or the t.v. while he's home. Or, the latest bragging right, he's become a worldly jet-setter. So pretty much, I'm a single mom who has to do an extra person's laundry, clean up his messes, manage his business, and deal with his tantrums. Yeah, why wouldn't everyone "sign up for this?"
And let's talk flexibility. I get reamed worse, now, if I "call in sick" either because the kids aren't feeling well or I just want to spend some one-on-one time with them, than I would working for someone else. Not to mention, I would get a pay check in any other normal job. What I hear now is, "This is what pays for 'our' life! What do you do to pitch in?" What do I do?? I work from 10am-4pm for no pay. I do more work than the rest of the office combined. I take care of the house. I take care of my kids. I wake up in the middle of the night, every night, with them. I cook. I take care of my health. That's what I do. And, in response to "What? You think you're just going to run out and get a job making barely anything?" Firstly, barely anything is a hell of a lot more than the growing debts his "business" is creating. Not to mention, for the exact same hours away from my kids, I'd actually get a pay check. I wouldn't get yelled at for taking a sick day. And, I have great job experience, so that "barely anything" is a hell of a lot more than what it sounds like!
All in all, I want to take my chances with my writing. I want to see what would come out of being happy. Of being independent again. Of doing what I love. Of being around friends and family without constant negativity and nagging. Of course, I really hope for my writing to take-off at some point so I can ACTUALLY have the flexibility with my kids, but moreso, I just want to free.
And, like always, a couple hours go by and I'm reminded why I blog in the first place. Because the good lasts mere hours, if that, and the bad is the rest of the time. My work is discredited. My effort is discredited. My being is discredited. And that is why I write. Which leads me, of course fueled by anger, disappointment, and logic, to wonder if my writing would be anything if I were actually happy. If I was with someone who actually supported my ideas. Who supported my efforts. Who supported me, period.
I do believe the Big Man doesn't want to be the psychotic, immature reactor that he is, most of the time. Until, of course, he says things like, "This is who I am," and "You knew I was crazy when you signed up for this." Doesn't sound like a person apologetic of his words and behaviors. Sounds more like a person who is quite well with the way his life is. He is used to it. He is satisfied.
But, I never signed up for anything! I got pregnant. That's it. Two of the most amazing children, ever, and I'm so proud to be their mommy. And for the most part, I remained in this situation for them. So they could have a daddy. So I could have the flexibility to stay home with them sometimes. Sadly, neither seems to happen. Daddy is rarely around, mostly because he vegges out on his computer or the t.v. while he's home. Or, the latest bragging right, he's become a worldly jet-setter. So pretty much, I'm a single mom who has to do an extra person's laundry, clean up his messes, manage his business, and deal with his tantrums. Yeah, why wouldn't everyone "sign up for this?"
And let's talk flexibility. I get reamed worse, now, if I "call in sick" either because the kids aren't feeling well or I just want to spend some one-on-one time with them, than I would working for someone else. Not to mention, I would get a pay check in any other normal job. What I hear now is, "This is what pays for 'our' life! What do you do to pitch in?" What do I do?? I work from 10am-4pm for no pay. I do more work than the rest of the office combined. I take care of the house. I take care of my kids. I wake up in the middle of the night, every night, with them. I cook. I take care of my health. That's what I do. And, in response to "What? You think you're just going to run out and get a job making barely anything?" Firstly, barely anything is a hell of a lot more than the growing debts his "business" is creating. Not to mention, for the exact same hours away from my kids, I'd actually get a pay check. I wouldn't get yelled at for taking a sick day. And, I have great job experience, so that "barely anything" is a hell of a lot more than what it sounds like!
All in all, I want to take my chances with my writing. I want to see what would come out of being happy. Of being independent again. Of doing what I love. Of being around friends and family without constant negativity and nagging. Of course, I really hope for my writing to take-off at some point so I can ACTUALLY have the flexibility with my kids, but moreso, I just want to free.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
A Little Past the Ides Of December
PREFACE: I wrote this in Dec. 2010, but never posted it. So...here it is!! Enjoy.
As we ring in the new decade, I've decided it's been quite the month. Quite the year really. So much has happened. Probably one of the most eventful years of my life, in an adult perspective. My family is deteriorating. My social life is growing. My children are growing. My economic means is deteriorating. Bittersweet really, in every sense of the meaning.
I rang in the decade in my twenties. After partying like it's 1999, because it was 1999, I started the decade in an unhealthy relationship. I was in love, but it was toxic. I ditched senior night to sleep in the bed of a truck in the teacher's parking lot of my high school with my boyfriend. That's a lasting love. (Enter sarcasm here) Lived with him. Fought with him. Made up. Partied. Fought. He lied and did drugs. I left. A very sad but memorable 5 years of my life.
Then, I played it solo. No boyfriend. I was a third wheel a lot, and I didn't mind. In fact, I didn't notice! My family was the same. My friends rocked. I partied. I hung out. I studied. I traveled. I made some AH.MAZE.ING friends at one of the best jobs I've ever had, of course because of the group. Then I dated again. This time, a good guy at the wrong time. Random really terrible car accident, in which I nearly died, that left glass in my ear and a scar on my rib to this day. After many Marilyn movies and some good Kenny marathons, another good few years.
Then did my own thing for a shorter amount of time. The story gets redundant. This time, I had kids. The best two kids on the face of the planet. The two cutest mugs you'll ever see. One all jokes, and one all business. My life became complete. Or at least I thought.
Of course with the normal turmoil of a relationship, these days, you will have your normal amount of drama, as I do. But then, in the last year or so of this great decade I can call my twenties, I lost some great friends, regained many more great friends, and made new great friends. Lost relations with some important family, while reconnecting to other as-important family. But, most recently, I've had some scares. My dad had a heart attack this week, spending a week in ICU. During which or promptly before my mom more than likely had a stroke. My dad is okay, the doctors say, but my mom is blank. It reminds me of when I was 8 and she couldn't remember who I was. So hurtful, but hurtful is so selfish. I'm more worried about her being alive. But I'm pretty sure I will be lucky to have her another Christmas. And yet, this Christmas I didn't spend with her. On top of this all, I have spent the most of a full school year with sick kids. And my babies Grandma had a bad fall too. You can no longer say December without saying productivity. Well, maybe productivity isn't the word. But I've definitely learned to live every day like it's my last.
As far as 2010 goes, I'm over it. I remember being excited that this year was here because it had to be better than that of the last, but, my guess is, it equaled or was possibly worse. I am excited for 2011, and this last day of the year; of the decade, is ending much more positively, at least, than the whole rest of the week, and that makes me excited.
As we ring in the new decade, I've decided it's been quite the month. Quite the year really. So much has happened. Probably one of the most eventful years of my life, in an adult perspective. My family is deteriorating. My social life is growing. My children are growing. My economic means is deteriorating. Bittersweet really, in every sense of the meaning.
I rang in the decade in my twenties. After partying like it's 1999, because it was 1999, I started the decade in an unhealthy relationship. I was in love, but it was toxic. I ditched senior night to sleep in the bed of a truck in the teacher's parking lot of my high school with my boyfriend. That's a lasting love. (Enter sarcasm here) Lived with him. Fought with him. Made up. Partied. Fought. He lied and did drugs. I left. A very sad but memorable 5 years of my life.
Then, I played it solo. No boyfriend. I was a third wheel a lot, and I didn't mind. In fact, I didn't notice! My family was the same. My friends rocked. I partied. I hung out. I studied. I traveled. I made some AH.MAZE.ING friends at one of the best jobs I've ever had, of course because of the group. Then I dated again. This time, a good guy at the wrong time. Random really terrible car accident, in which I nearly died, that left glass in my ear and a scar on my rib to this day. After many Marilyn movies and some good Kenny marathons, another good few years.
Then did my own thing for a shorter amount of time. The story gets redundant. This time, I had kids. The best two kids on the face of the planet. The two cutest mugs you'll ever see. One all jokes, and one all business. My life became complete. Or at least I thought.
Of course with the normal turmoil of a relationship, these days, you will have your normal amount of drama, as I do. But then, in the last year or so of this great decade I can call my twenties, I lost some great friends, regained many more great friends, and made new great friends. Lost relations with some important family, while reconnecting to other as-important family. But, most recently, I've had some scares. My dad had a heart attack this week, spending a week in ICU. During which or promptly before my mom more than likely had a stroke. My dad is okay, the doctors say, but my mom is blank. It reminds me of when I was 8 and she couldn't remember who I was. So hurtful, but hurtful is so selfish. I'm more worried about her being alive. But I'm pretty sure I will be lucky to have her another Christmas. And yet, this Christmas I didn't spend with her. On top of this all, I have spent the most of a full school year with sick kids. And my babies Grandma had a bad fall too. You can no longer say December without saying productivity. Well, maybe productivity isn't the word. But I've definitely learned to live every day like it's my last.
As far as 2010 goes, I'm over it. I remember being excited that this year was here because it had to be better than that of the last, but, my guess is, it equaled or was possibly worse. I am excited for 2011, and this last day of the year; of the decade, is ending much more positively, at least, than the whole rest of the week, and that makes me excited.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Ain't In No Hurry
I know, it sounds funny coming from me. But today I realized a few things. I realized that I'm a different person than this person putting myself completely last. I also realized other people think the same. I realized that all of my views of the world when I was a teenager were right. I realized I could change everything by a change of mind.
That realization made me feel powerful. I feel powerful when I box. I feel powerful when I run. I feel powerful when someone recognizes my work, whether it be art, business, or even cooking. Other than that, I realize, I rarely feel powerful in my position. But that wasn't the story when I was a teenager, or even a twenty something for most of those years. That is something that is going to have to change!!
So of course, I start to compare. What was different when I was younger?? How did I act different?? Dress?? Think?? And in all of this reminiscing, I remember. I had morals that weren't worth anyone. There was nothing that was going to keep me from my beliefs. And through the years, I lost that, somehow. It wasn't a moment. Nothing random that happened that I could remember.
To be honest, the real first change was kids. They make you think different, even when you're only pregnant. But even more-so when they're alive and making judgments and rehearsing the actions they see. And I thought moving cats back and forth was hard!! It's imperative to show them positivity and responsibility.
The next change is when you start to truly believe you are the answer to someone else's problem and begin to trust that if you give them completely everything, they will change and reciprocate. That is and will never be the case, no matter how much "potential" they show.
After that, the only other thing I can attribute to the lack of standing up for my morals would be not having a support group, which is adversely affected by the first couple of changes. Friends change as you do. Either you have kids and they don't. They have kids and you don't. You move to two completely different towns. Your jobs have opposite hours. Whatever. It happens. And, I've learned, unless you can figure out how to really put an emphasis on these friendships, they dim out, unfortunately. I, sadly, only just figured this out. Not everyone is the same, therefore, not everyone is like me.
Needless to say, through these realizations, all sparked and pushed from different sources, I've really been led to believe I'm on the right path. I feel so clear. Like I can see everything. Like I did before. And I'm acting accordingly. I'm pursuing my friendships, the way I should have in the first place. I'm pursuing my dreams the way I should have in the first place. I'm learning how to curve the drama, the way I should have known how to earlier.
But what is amazing about growth, is that there doesn't seem to be any remorse. I'm grateful I've finally figured out what I have. I'm not beating myself up for not knowing in the first place. In fact, I am unapologetic to the point that I'm not rushing change so much. Its apparent that the more I realize, the clearer and faster the changes happen. Although, I do miss many things, friendships, relationships, whatnot from when I was a little younger; I know that life will work itself out as long as I pursue the positive and moral path for my own beliefs.
I ain't in no hurry, in general, to fix everything. I am learning so much from the journey and able to apply a lot of the ideals from my "lessons" to my life immediately, so that my path is changing before my eyes. It's a happy feeling and I'm excited to see where I am only next week. Until then!
That realization made me feel powerful. I feel powerful when I box. I feel powerful when I run. I feel powerful when someone recognizes my work, whether it be art, business, or even cooking. Other than that, I realize, I rarely feel powerful in my position. But that wasn't the story when I was a teenager, or even a twenty something for most of those years. That is something that is going to have to change!!
So of course, I start to compare. What was different when I was younger?? How did I act different?? Dress?? Think?? And in all of this reminiscing, I remember. I had morals that weren't worth anyone. There was nothing that was going to keep me from my beliefs. And through the years, I lost that, somehow. It wasn't a moment. Nothing random that happened that I could remember.
To be honest, the real first change was kids. They make you think different, even when you're only pregnant. But even more-so when they're alive and making judgments and rehearsing the actions they see. And I thought moving cats back and forth was hard!! It's imperative to show them positivity and responsibility.
The next change is when you start to truly believe you are the answer to someone else's problem and begin to trust that if you give them completely everything, they will change and reciprocate. That is and will never be the case, no matter how much "potential" they show.
After that, the only other thing I can attribute to the lack of standing up for my morals would be not having a support group, which is adversely affected by the first couple of changes. Friends change as you do. Either you have kids and they don't. They have kids and you don't. You move to two completely different towns. Your jobs have opposite hours. Whatever. It happens. And, I've learned, unless you can figure out how to really put an emphasis on these friendships, they dim out, unfortunately. I, sadly, only just figured this out. Not everyone is the same, therefore, not everyone is like me.
Needless to say, through these realizations, all sparked and pushed from different sources, I've really been led to believe I'm on the right path. I feel so clear. Like I can see everything. Like I did before. And I'm acting accordingly. I'm pursuing my friendships, the way I should have in the first place. I'm pursuing my dreams the way I should have in the first place. I'm learning how to curve the drama, the way I should have known how to earlier.
But what is amazing about growth, is that there doesn't seem to be any remorse. I'm grateful I've finally figured out what I have. I'm not beating myself up for not knowing in the first place. In fact, I am unapologetic to the point that I'm not rushing change so much. Its apparent that the more I realize, the clearer and faster the changes happen. Although, I do miss many things, friendships, relationships, whatnot from when I was a little younger; I know that life will work itself out as long as I pursue the positive and moral path for my own beliefs.
I ain't in no hurry, in general, to fix everything. I am learning so much from the journey and able to apply a lot of the ideals from my "lessons" to my life immediately, so that my path is changing before my eyes. It's a happy feeling and I'm excited to see where I am only next week. Until then!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Girl Who Drank the Slurpee
I was just thinking, today, about posting a Facebook status update that read: "I wonder if judgment comes with age." Then I realized that everyone who read it would think I was talking about my babies. And I should have been.
Then, I thought back to when and if my judgment was worse than it is today. As I kept going further and further back in the memory bank, I was embarrassed. I honestly think I've actually regressed to less judgment than I ever remember having, and I was able to attach specific moments to the thought, as if creating a virtual time line. Like the kind of time line you find at the beginning of each chapter in any given history book. Only, instead of the year the American flag was sewn, or that great day in Eli Whitney's cotton career, my time line reminds me of times I've been brutally let down, even abused.
I remember spending hours in the garage telling my drunk father how much he means to me, to everyone in our family. And he just sobbed because he knew his word meant nothing to any of his kids or his wife. He was full of broken promises and drowned his sorrows. As if he was only hurting himself. He would tell me how much all he ever wanted in his life was his first son, my oldest brother. He never wanted the rest of us. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He just promised to quit drinking tomorrow. When that happens, for the first time in 40 years, then he'll realize what he said, take it back, and say what he really means. This scenario happened to the upwards of 5 nights a week. The other two I spent in my room crying because I thought for sure that would be the day.
Even before that, I remember keeping busy in my room with my nieces, playing school and barbies. We were able, that way, to avoid at least half of the fighting and drunkenness that every day was littered with. But when they had to go home, or the days they couldn't come over and play, I remember the insecure verbal attacks on my mom, as if a mother of 6 had time to take care of us all, grocery shop, cook and clean, AND have an affair. I wasn't even completely sure what an affair was, but I knew my dad was just crazy. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He would come into a completely dark house, hours later, and stumble to the couch where my mom was sitting, and mumble words that could have possibly sounded like, "I'm sorry. I love you." And I only heard them then. When he had buried his abuse in the bottle so hard, that, I think, he forgot that he was even sad. Forgot why he'd yelled at my mom. Forgot THAT he yelled at my mom.
And before that, even. Before I even remember my dad, because he wouldn't come inside. He drank at work. He drank on the road from work to the bar. He drank at the bar. He drank on the road to home. And he would park in the driveway and drink until he fell asleep. He would play his music so loud in the truck, I could hear it in the house with his windows up. I remember thinking that he should become a country singer. My mom made the mistake of telling me, excitedly, to go out and look at the blimp. I'm sure she'd thought my dad was already passed out. Unfortunately for me, he wasn't. And he was in a bad mood. I remember only one detail of the rest of the night. He spanked me for going to look at the blimp. Very hard. That was the one and only time he ever spanked me, mostly, I assume, because I was walloped so hard, it scared HIM. I knew he was wrong. But, I excused him. He bought me a slurpee the next day. And a candy bar. And that was a secret surprise that I couldn't even tell my mom. So, I excused him.
So, while formulating this virtual time line, I realize an apparent pattern. And I wasn't extremely surprised thinking forward from that point either. Except for the fact that I think somewhere around the point I realized my dad wasn't going to stop drinking every day, and when I started having way more important things to do with my nights instead of spending them speaking Greek to a drunk, my judgment was the best of my life. I stood up for myself based on my morals. I did what I wanted to do, despite what anybody thought of it. My judgment has faltered, slowly but surely, from then, until now, and I can understand half of it. Points of low self esteem; friends move away, family starts building their own families. It was lack of practice, mostly. I didn't have those strongholds in my life the way I did back then. And today, I saw me. A scared little girl with a slurpee. And I realized so much about my mom. How she's even stronger than I ever gave her credit for, and I thought she was made of steel.
So, by this time next year, I'm setting a goal to be in a different place in my life. A place where I stop excusing because I know better. A place where I smile because I don't have to worry about psychopathic behaviors. A place where my children smile because I'm raising them in a secure environment, learning to be happy and confident. I will never again be the girl with the slurpee.
Then, I thought back to when and if my judgment was worse than it is today. As I kept going further and further back in the memory bank, I was embarrassed. I honestly think I've actually regressed to less judgment than I ever remember having, and I was able to attach specific moments to the thought, as if creating a virtual time line. Like the kind of time line you find at the beginning of each chapter in any given history book. Only, instead of the year the American flag was sewn, or that great day in Eli Whitney's cotton career, my time line reminds me of times I've been brutally let down, even abused.
I remember spending hours in the garage telling my drunk father how much he means to me, to everyone in our family. And he just sobbed because he knew his word meant nothing to any of his kids or his wife. He was full of broken promises and drowned his sorrows. As if he was only hurting himself. He would tell me how much all he ever wanted in his life was his first son, my oldest brother. He never wanted the rest of us. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He just promised to quit drinking tomorrow. When that happens, for the first time in 40 years, then he'll realize what he said, take it back, and say what he really means. This scenario happened to the upwards of 5 nights a week. The other two I spent in my room crying because I thought for sure that would be the day.
Even before that, I remember keeping busy in my room with my nieces, playing school and barbies. We were able, that way, to avoid at least half of the fighting and drunkenness that every day was littered with. But when they had to go home, or the days they couldn't come over and play, I remember the insecure verbal attacks on my mom, as if a mother of 6 had time to take care of us all, grocery shop, cook and clean, AND have an affair. I wasn't even completely sure what an affair was, but I knew my dad was just crazy. But, I excused him. He didn't know what he was saying. He would come into a completely dark house, hours later, and stumble to the couch where my mom was sitting, and mumble words that could have possibly sounded like, "I'm sorry. I love you." And I only heard them then. When he had buried his abuse in the bottle so hard, that, I think, he forgot that he was even sad. Forgot why he'd yelled at my mom. Forgot THAT he yelled at my mom.
And before that, even. Before I even remember my dad, because he wouldn't come inside. He drank at work. He drank on the road from work to the bar. He drank at the bar. He drank on the road to home. And he would park in the driveway and drink until he fell asleep. He would play his music so loud in the truck, I could hear it in the house with his windows up. I remember thinking that he should become a country singer. My mom made the mistake of telling me, excitedly, to go out and look at the blimp. I'm sure she'd thought my dad was already passed out. Unfortunately for me, he wasn't. And he was in a bad mood. I remember only one detail of the rest of the night. He spanked me for going to look at the blimp. Very hard. That was the one and only time he ever spanked me, mostly, I assume, because I was walloped so hard, it scared HIM. I knew he was wrong. But, I excused him. He bought me a slurpee the next day. And a candy bar. And that was a secret surprise that I couldn't even tell my mom. So, I excused him.
So, while formulating this virtual time line, I realize an apparent pattern. And I wasn't extremely surprised thinking forward from that point either. Except for the fact that I think somewhere around the point I realized my dad wasn't going to stop drinking every day, and when I started having way more important things to do with my nights instead of spending them speaking Greek to a drunk, my judgment was the best of my life. I stood up for myself based on my morals. I did what I wanted to do, despite what anybody thought of it. My judgment has faltered, slowly but surely, from then, until now, and I can understand half of it. Points of low self esteem; friends move away, family starts building their own families. It was lack of practice, mostly. I didn't have those strongholds in my life the way I did back then. And today, I saw me. A scared little girl with a slurpee. And I realized so much about my mom. How she's even stronger than I ever gave her credit for, and I thought she was made of steel.
So, by this time next year, I'm setting a goal to be in a different place in my life. A place where I stop excusing because I know better. A place where I smile because I don't have to worry about psychopathic behaviors. A place where my children smile because I'm raising them in a secure environment, learning to be happy and confident. I will never again be the girl with the slurpee.
Monday, August 29, 2011
My Sister, The Angel
I was blessed by God with a large family; 3 sisters and 2 brothers, not to mention parents that didn't divorce. Sadly, I was never able to appreciate what I was given. My family was dysfunctional. Broken. Disrespecting. It was like there was practically no kinship at all. My siblings and I rarely interacted, if not from our own individual issues, because we were either being criticized by each other or criticizing each other. Something we can attribute easily to our parents. But that doesn't really matter. What does matter is that, even by the time a single one of us slightly pulled our heads out of our asses enough to acknowledge the err of our ways, it was way too late. My oldest sister died way too young at 43 a few years back. The next sister was who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. My third sister was so busy trudging through her own family drama, whether facilitated or otherwise, and then digging herself out of the tangled web, I could hardly expect to have that close, sometimes forced, great sisterly relationship we had for a few years. And that is definitely not all her fault. I was so busy trying to fix guy after guy, ripping my self esteem down further and further, that sometimes it was I who was emotionally unavailable. And my two brothers were no better. My dad was an alcoholic, and my mom had the mentality of a 5 year old what after multiple brain surgeries thanks to good ol' cancer. So, I had 7 beautiful body masses, every one of which shared the same last name, and I wasn't allowed to have one decent conversation, let alone a relationship. Sure, that's my example of how to become a useful part of society. A mother. A partner. That's who I should pick to surround myself with.
And that's what I did. A slew of bad relationships, not necessarily progressively worse, but also not the other way around. Couldn't maintain friends, mostly while in a relationship. Grades started to slip. Priorities changed, fluttered, became practically non-existent. And then I turned 30. The big three-oh. People make way too big a deal about 30. Its just another year, in between 29 and 31. Ten year reunion was done and past way earlier. I've had kids. Hmmm...and that's about the end of my list. The list of what would happen through the progression of my life that I managed and re-managed internally my senior year of high school. That guy I was going to marry?? Long gone. And married! That house I was going to buy?? Blew those savings, on nothing more than another disabled guy. We dated, shacked up, I paid most of the bills, until I quit my job like he suggested so we could live the "free, entrepreneurial life style" that he was accustomed to, and somehow made ends meet. Sadly, I had no idea most of this mumbo-jumbo was a bunch of druggie nonsense. Yep, of course. I caught another one.
What's worse is I got pregnant. In an abusive relationship. Something I'd watch my mom and my sisters go through and tell myself I would NEVER let that happen to me. I would die first. But sadly, pinching myself to realize I'm alive hurt even more than normal. Even the tears it brought to my eyes stung more than tears ever had before. I let it happen. I let more than I'd like to admit happen. I've allowed myself to be abused. I've quit my job. I've sold my car. I've conjoined my cell phone on a family plan. I have 2 kids and nothing else. I am exactly who I told myself I would never become. And I can't get out.
For a long time, I thought, "If I can just wait it out and stash some money, I'll get out!" But that never worked. Amidst the disgustingly abusive arguments about what a terrible mother/housekeeper/person I am, I would end up having to use the stashed money on the baby's formula or new school clothes because, "didn't I just give you $200??" Yeah, yuh did. 2 weeks ago when there were no groceries in the fridge, no diapers on the door, and no formula in the pantry. Formula, by the way, that costs $35 twice a week. You did give me that, and I'm sure my terrible cooking and cleaning and playing with kids skills don't equate to some more money, let alone the week worth of work I spent at YOUR shop making sure everything's done: FOR FREE! But again, that is my fault. I was always promised a paycheck, but one was never cut for me. And I wasn't able to cash any that were because there wasn't enough money in the bank since there was that huge deal going through. Needless to say, the wait it out trick left me dry and even more torn down. I'm pretty sure there isn't an insult I haven't heard. And all I want to do is get out. But I can't.
Its just the way he wants it. I'm powerless, even feel it inside myself. He's in control of everything. I think about a shelter but am too afraid to even try. I figure out another version of the wait-it-out-then-escape escape. Another doosy. And another after that. As the tears pang my face, I'm always brought back to that one Thanksgiving I spent in Illinois with my sister. Not too long ago, after she'd been diagnosed, but before it won. She knew me. Twenty-something years had passed between us, and somehow, she knew me. I know why. Because I was her. I was broken. I was stuck. I was in an abusive relationship and I couldn't get out. And, Oh! The kids. Except there was one difference. After she had been already expected to lose her battle, and after she found her abusive husband cheating for the ump-teenth time. After she'd gotten so sick from the chemo, and had to deal with her own 5 kids growing up and doing teenage things. After she had lost all of her hair and become a stronghold in her grandkids life. After all of this, she somehow mustered up the courage to leave her abusive, cheating, and, on top of it all, ugly husband and live on her own. I was so proud of her. I was in awe. She would even sometimes talk about his "charm" and blah blah blah, but she did it, and she made it!
More than I can say for myself. I didn't even marry the guy I handed all my earthly belongings to! Of course, I was smarter than that....? Needless to say, my sister, the angel comes to me sometimes. Not in ghost form, or knocking noises. Her face will jump in my head and I hear her say my name. By then, I can tell whether she approves or disapproves of my choices, and this same thing has happened just this week. I heard her last words to me, "Take care of that baby girl!" And I realize I'm doing the opposite of everything I've ever wanted to do. Yes, I'm spending time with my kids, and teaching them, and loving them, and feeding and bathing them, and teaching them rules and consequences, but I'm also allowing them to see me disrespected and broken. I'm not letting them know the happy and funny me. Instead, I'm showing insecurities, lacking self esteem. What kind of mom does that?? So I'm brought back to reality, thanks to God and my beautiful angel, and I'm left to figure out how to finally put an end to it. I've managed enough common sense to realize I'm not a terrible person for getting a 9-5, having to put the kids in day care and live in a not-so-state-of-the-art place. At least I will show them that I can provide for them and that they can be happy with a happy mommy. I know that if I am able to do this, not only will I still be doing all of the things with them I already do, they will also learn me without all the abuse and insults. They will see a mom who has confidence and can smile.
So that brings me to the very important if. I'm no longer scared of a shelter. I'm not incredibly worried about the kids adjusting. So how do I get out of this cycle that, as history has proven, ends up in cancer and death without the opportunity of showing the world and your children your potential?? I honestly don't have an exact answer, but I can see my sister's face and I know that as long as I believe in my faith and myself I will get out of it.
And that's what I did. A slew of bad relationships, not necessarily progressively worse, but also not the other way around. Couldn't maintain friends, mostly while in a relationship. Grades started to slip. Priorities changed, fluttered, became practically non-existent. And then I turned 30. The big three-oh. People make way too big a deal about 30. Its just another year, in between 29 and 31. Ten year reunion was done and past way earlier. I've had kids. Hmmm...and that's about the end of my list. The list of what would happen through the progression of my life that I managed and re-managed internally my senior year of high school. That guy I was going to marry?? Long gone. And married! That house I was going to buy?? Blew those savings, on nothing more than another disabled guy. We dated, shacked up, I paid most of the bills, until I quit my job like he suggested so we could live the "free, entrepreneurial life style" that he was accustomed to, and somehow made ends meet. Sadly, I had no idea most of this mumbo-jumbo was a bunch of druggie nonsense. Yep, of course. I caught another one.
What's worse is I got pregnant. In an abusive relationship. Something I'd watch my mom and my sisters go through and tell myself I would NEVER let that happen to me. I would die first. But sadly, pinching myself to realize I'm alive hurt even more than normal. Even the tears it brought to my eyes stung more than tears ever had before. I let it happen. I let more than I'd like to admit happen. I've allowed myself to be abused. I've quit my job. I've sold my car. I've conjoined my cell phone on a family plan. I have 2 kids and nothing else. I am exactly who I told myself I would never become. And I can't get out.
For a long time, I thought, "If I can just wait it out and stash some money, I'll get out!" But that never worked. Amidst the disgustingly abusive arguments about what a terrible mother/housekeeper/person I am, I would end up having to use the stashed money on the baby's formula or new school clothes because, "didn't I just give you $200??" Yeah, yuh did. 2 weeks ago when there were no groceries in the fridge, no diapers on the door, and no formula in the pantry. Formula, by the way, that costs $35 twice a week. You did give me that, and I'm sure my terrible cooking and cleaning and playing with kids skills don't equate to some more money, let alone the week worth of work I spent at YOUR shop making sure everything's done: FOR FREE! But again, that is my fault. I was always promised a paycheck, but one was never cut for me. And I wasn't able to cash any that were because there wasn't enough money in the bank since there was that huge deal going through. Needless to say, the wait it out trick left me dry and even more torn down. I'm pretty sure there isn't an insult I haven't heard. And all I want to do is get out. But I can't.
Its just the way he wants it. I'm powerless, even feel it inside myself. He's in control of everything. I think about a shelter but am too afraid to even try. I figure out another version of the wait-it-out-then-escape escape. Another doosy. And another after that. As the tears pang my face, I'm always brought back to that one Thanksgiving I spent in Illinois with my sister. Not too long ago, after she'd been diagnosed, but before it won. She knew me. Twenty-something years had passed between us, and somehow, she knew me. I know why. Because I was her. I was broken. I was stuck. I was in an abusive relationship and I couldn't get out. And, Oh! The kids. Except there was one difference. After she had been already expected to lose her battle, and after she found her abusive husband cheating for the ump-teenth time. After she'd gotten so sick from the chemo, and had to deal with her own 5 kids growing up and doing teenage things. After she had lost all of her hair and become a stronghold in her grandkids life. After all of this, she somehow mustered up the courage to leave her abusive, cheating, and, on top of it all, ugly husband and live on her own. I was so proud of her. I was in awe. She would even sometimes talk about his "charm" and blah blah blah, but she did it, and she made it!
More than I can say for myself. I didn't even marry the guy I handed all my earthly belongings to! Of course, I was smarter than that....? Needless to say, my sister, the angel comes to me sometimes. Not in ghost form, or knocking noises. Her face will jump in my head and I hear her say my name. By then, I can tell whether she approves or disapproves of my choices, and this same thing has happened just this week. I heard her last words to me, "Take care of that baby girl!" And I realize I'm doing the opposite of everything I've ever wanted to do. Yes, I'm spending time with my kids, and teaching them, and loving them, and feeding and bathing them, and teaching them rules and consequences, but I'm also allowing them to see me disrespected and broken. I'm not letting them know the happy and funny me. Instead, I'm showing insecurities, lacking self esteem. What kind of mom does that?? So I'm brought back to reality, thanks to God and my beautiful angel, and I'm left to figure out how to finally put an end to it. I've managed enough common sense to realize I'm not a terrible person for getting a 9-5, having to put the kids in day care and live in a not-so-state-of-the-art place. At least I will show them that I can provide for them and that they can be happy with a happy mommy. I know that if I am able to do this, not only will I still be doing all of the things with them I already do, they will also learn me without all the abuse and insults. They will see a mom who has confidence and can smile.
So that brings me to the very important if. I'm no longer scared of a shelter. I'm not incredibly worried about the kids adjusting. So how do I get out of this cycle that, as history has proven, ends up in cancer and death without the opportunity of showing the world and your children your potential?? I honestly don't have an exact answer, but I can see my sister's face and I know that as long as I believe in my faith and myself I will get out of it.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Metamorphosis
As I sit in the dark in the bathroom, hiding from kids that could wake at any misstep I take and fumble on a rattle, I have such a bittersweet feeling. I'm secure with myself. I love my kids to no end. I'm not afraid. And yet, my life is going to completely change. All of these things, in the last five years of the journey of my life, somewhat amaze me, because the first half, I was unaware, or moreso, in denial of the fact that anything was wrong, and the second half was me talking myself back into becoming myself and bravely moving forward.
As confusing as this sounds, I'm not my mother. Am I on the path of becoming her? YES. But as far as my 29th year of life, I'm not her quite yet. Yes, I'm bad at picking men. Yes, I lose my self esteem sometimes. But I got to thinking tonight. I never would have dealt with anything I've dealt with the last handful of years, when I was a teenager. I was so secure. So aware. I stood up for minorities. For the less fortunate. For the abused. I stood up for me. And somewhere down the line, I lost that person. Well, more like blurred her. My clothes became ordinary. The things I did to make myself happy stopped. I had a curfew. My pennies were counted. On my way to becoming my mom.
But I realized I wasn't happy, and was willing to deal with the reprimands in order to be somewhat happy. And I reached out. I found some of my old friends and was able, thank God, to rekindle those friendships. I've made great strides in this type of reestablishment of myself as of late. But then I thought. Should I have to be doing this?? Should I have to make strides?? Should I have to reestablish myself?? Why have I been so blind for so long. And I've realized no. I shouldn't have to do any of this. I should be teaching my children happiness. I should be living up to my potential. I should have all of my wonderful friends close to me, as well as my family.
And I'm not the girl who says, "Oh, it's all his fault." Or, "There was nothing I could do." My poor choices and lack of esteem and bravery are what led me to where I am today, and I've always said it. I was no where near here 6 years ago. The complete opposite actually. Ready to buy my own house as a single twenty-something in southern California. But what I know is how to make drama "deal-able." I can "fix" people enough. Ha! That's what I thought. But I knew different. It almost sounds selfish.
Needless to say, with the cancer with my mom, and my grandma; with my serious car accident; with the passing of my sister; every time something huge in my life happens, I promise myself and God that I will stop wasting time and start living happy. And, instead, I fall back into the routines because it's easier. Tonight, nothing serious happened. Nothing tragic. Nothing life changing. And yet tonight, I've gathered up all my thoughts and decided that, yet again, it's okay to lose everything. Stuff is just that; stuff. I have my kids. I have my family. And last but not least, I have my friends. I'm brave enough to be happy, today. I'm smart enough to teach my children the importance of happiness. I'm free tonight.
And after I decided that, the worry set in. How am I going to do everything myself?? I have two kids. I have no "real" job. My living situation is less than simple. And yet, the anxiety attacks I have from not having lunches made the night before school, or not having adequate time on a project at school just doesn't seem to come...I'm completely calm. I do everything now. I work a full day with no pay check. I'm a great mommy. The only thing that will change is I'll have less drama to deal with, less to clean, and more friends. My kids will see me smile for a change. I will be happy, and I can't wait. Couldn't have happened at a weirder time, but that makes it even more amazing.
I'm ready to let go of all of the things I've always hated about sheep. I'm ready to be my own individual again. I'm ready to have the skin of a duck, and be so carefree that it just rolls right off. I'm ready to be completely opened minded again, without worry of consequence. I'm ready to be the person; the woman I always was. Unique. Smart. Funny. Laid back. I'm ready, and I can't wait.
As confusing as this sounds, I'm not my mother. Am I on the path of becoming her? YES. But as far as my 29th year of life, I'm not her quite yet. Yes, I'm bad at picking men. Yes, I lose my self esteem sometimes. But I got to thinking tonight. I never would have dealt with anything I've dealt with the last handful of years, when I was a teenager. I was so secure. So aware. I stood up for minorities. For the less fortunate. For the abused. I stood up for me. And somewhere down the line, I lost that person. Well, more like blurred her. My clothes became ordinary. The things I did to make myself happy stopped. I had a curfew. My pennies were counted. On my way to becoming my mom.
But I realized I wasn't happy, and was willing to deal with the reprimands in order to be somewhat happy. And I reached out. I found some of my old friends and was able, thank God, to rekindle those friendships. I've made great strides in this type of reestablishment of myself as of late. But then I thought. Should I have to be doing this?? Should I have to make strides?? Should I have to reestablish myself?? Why have I been so blind for so long. And I've realized no. I shouldn't have to do any of this. I should be teaching my children happiness. I should be living up to my potential. I should have all of my wonderful friends close to me, as well as my family.
And I'm not the girl who says, "Oh, it's all his fault." Or, "There was nothing I could do." My poor choices and lack of esteem and bravery are what led me to where I am today, and I've always said it. I was no where near here 6 years ago. The complete opposite actually. Ready to buy my own house as a single twenty-something in southern California. But what I know is how to make drama "deal-able." I can "fix" people enough. Ha! That's what I thought. But I knew different. It almost sounds selfish.
Needless to say, with the cancer with my mom, and my grandma; with my serious car accident; with the passing of my sister; every time something huge in my life happens, I promise myself and God that I will stop wasting time and start living happy. And, instead, I fall back into the routines because it's easier. Tonight, nothing serious happened. Nothing tragic. Nothing life changing. And yet tonight, I've gathered up all my thoughts and decided that, yet again, it's okay to lose everything. Stuff is just that; stuff. I have my kids. I have my family. And last but not least, I have my friends. I'm brave enough to be happy, today. I'm smart enough to teach my children the importance of happiness. I'm free tonight.
And after I decided that, the worry set in. How am I going to do everything myself?? I have two kids. I have no "real" job. My living situation is less than simple. And yet, the anxiety attacks I have from not having lunches made the night before school, or not having adequate time on a project at school just doesn't seem to come...I'm completely calm. I do everything now. I work a full day with no pay check. I'm a great mommy. The only thing that will change is I'll have less drama to deal with, less to clean, and more friends. My kids will see me smile for a change. I will be happy, and I can't wait. Couldn't have happened at a weirder time, but that makes it even more amazing.
I'm ready to let go of all of the things I've always hated about sheep. I'm ready to be my own individual again. I'm ready to have the skin of a duck, and be so carefree that it just rolls right off. I'm ready to be completely opened minded again, without worry of consequence. I'm ready to be the person; the woman I always was. Unique. Smart. Funny. Laid back. I'm ready, and I can't wait.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Missed Call: Message Waiting.
Cell phone voicemails can be intimidating. Especially when they pile up. I don't know whom I've missed their call, who's pissed about it, who's got good news, or who is calling emergency status. But lately I've been very good about my voicemail. I've turned my ringer up, for the most part, and what calls I still miss, I listen to my voicemail as soon as I notice the message icon on my phone. Such was the routine today. Missed call: Sister. Message icon. So I dial my voicemail.
I fully expected an "I can't find a certain Christmas present" message or a "bet you didn't know what happened at my house today" kind of message. Unfortunately, neither of those were the case. To make a long story short, she visited my parent's house today, something neither of us do often enough. She described my mom as "as worse off as she's seen her" and said she is "withering away." Immediately, my mood changed. I withdrew, and just went through the motions. All the same thoughts that I always ponder came rushing back.
To begin with, I've always wondered what would have been easier. Physically losing my mom to her fight with cancer, or what actually happened and losing her mentally for the rest of her life. I still have no idea. But I do know that every time my mom gets more sickly or less manageable, I start to feel guilty. I count how many times I went over to visit her in the last month. I try to remember if I always told her I loved her. Kissed her. Hugged her. And yet, it's never clear and it's always too few times. So today, I began to think about Christmas. What if it's my last Christmas with her, even if she isn't completely there, mentally. What do I give her?? Would she prefer the porcelain doll of the type that she collects avidly, or would she rather have a matted and framed picture of the kids?? Does she want to go to Stinkyface's first tap recital? What would make her understand, that after all these years, I still support her and respect her and love her??
And I've come up with nothing. I don't know if I've visited enough. I don't know if I've told her my feelings enough. I don't know even how she feels about Christmas, let alone what present would mean the most or be the best in the case that it be her last one to share with me on this planet. But I do know that for the rest of the time I'm able to have her with me physically on this Earth, I'm going to make sure to do everything I feel I've slacked on as much as I possibly can until I can't anymore.
I love you mom, and miss your capabilities. But you are still as loving, funny, personable, and great as you always have been and I know that I'm not the only one who feels this way. You are an amazing woman who has survived so much and you will always be admired by women everywhere!!
I fully expected an "I can't find a certain Christmas present" message or a "bet you didn't know what happened at my house today" kind of message. Unfortunately, neither of those were the case. To make a long story short, she visited my parent's house today, something neither of us do often enough. She described my mom as "as worse off as she's seen her" and said she is "withering away." Immediately, my mood changed. I withdrew, and just went through the motions. All the same thoughts that I always ponder came rushing back.
To begin with, I've always wondered what would have been easier. Physically losing my mom to her fight with cancer, or what actually happened and losing her mentally for the rest of her life. I still have no idea. But I do know that every time my mom gets more sickly or less manageable, I start to feel guilty. I count how many times I went over to visit her in the last month. I try to remember if I always told her I loved her. Kissed her. Hugged her. And yet, it's never clear and it's always too few times. So today, I began to think about Christmas. What if it's my last Christmas with her, even if she isn't completely there, mentally. What do I give her?? Would she prefer the porcelain doll of the type that she collects avidly, or would she rather have a matted and framed picture of the kids?? Does she want to go to Stinkyface's first tap recital? What would make her understand, that after all these years, I still support her and respect her and love her??
And I've come up with nothing. I don't know if I've visited enough. I don't know if I've told her my feelings enough. I don't know even how she feels about Christmas, let alone what present would mean the most or be the best in the case that it be her last one to share with me on this planet. But I do know that for the rest of the time I'm able to have her with me physically on this Earth, I'm going to make sure to do everything I feel I've slacked on as much as I possibly can until I can't anymore.
I love you mom, and miss your capabilities. But you are still as loving, funny, personable, and great as you always have been and I know that I'm not the only one who feels this way. You are an amazing woman who has survived so much and you will always be admired by women everywhere!!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
November 30th
So, as I ponder the subject of today's blog, I'm getting more and more irritated. Is irritated the word?? No. Angry. Resentful. Sad. Today is the third anniversary of my oldest sister's passing. And with that come all these emotions that I've claimed to have dealt with but haven't even come close. And I've decided this posting can go one of two directions. It can be a hateful release on the person I've placed the blame on for losing my sister so early. Or, it can be a very mournful celebration of the wonderful, strong woman she was in all of her short years. I'm really, really going to try for the latter.
My sister was a young mom. A VERY young mom. And the man who knocked her up was an abusive addict. I remember him as ugly. As scary. And besides that, the only thing else I remember about him is his name. He didn't only abuse my sister, a mom to his two children by 16. He also was abusive to the girls. To me. He was pretty much evil to everyone he came in contact with. But I got to be around my sister and my nieces because they lived nearby, and sometimes, back at home with me. I don't know how or when she got the courage to leave this void of a man, but she did, and I admire her for that.
The problem is, she felt like no one would want a mom of two girls. This, of course, was the 80's people. Not like today where Octomom has suitors in a line down the street. People were stereotypical; superficial. People judged as if they were God. And coming from a past where her own father wasn't around, and her step-father was close to the same, she was wanted that validity. For a man to love her. Again, I don't remember when or how she met him, but she met who was to become her next husband. He was younger. He said the right words. He seemed to have a nice family. He was willing to be with her despite the fact that she had two young girls. He married her and that was the end.
They moved to Japan because he was in the military. My sister was gone. My nieces were gone. They were transplanted into a foreign country with nobody, because my sister was being what she thought a good wife should be. They stayed there for years. My best friends became my pen pals, and eventually the letters faded. We would get depressing video journals from my sister in the mail. They were alone. It was constantly raining. But she always tried to make the best of it, for her girls.
My sister got pregnant with an adorable little girl with her husband. It was right about then I remember them coming back. When they finally came back to the states, they moved to Illinois. You have to understand, my sister was still very young, and all she ever knew was her family and friends in good ol' HB. Now, she was surrounded by his family and friends. Thousands of miles away from us. She stayed there. We visited a couple times and they visited a couple times. When I met the husband, I knew. I didn't like him. Not at all. My sister was beautiful. He was ugly. My sister laughed. He put her down. My sister loved her kids. He resented them. I hated the fact they were together. He caused so much drama, not only in her life, but in the life of my entire family. He was abusive. To everyone. It was the same story.
But my sister couldn't let go. Needless to say, she had two more kids with him. Boys. Didn't treat them any better. And it got worse. He blatantly cheated. Lied. Drank. God knows what else. He openly abused my sister and the kids. And the oldest two, weren't even treated like humans. But this is common is abusive relationships. The manipulation. The draining of self-esteem. The control. My sister was a victimized enabler like my mom. She was no longer the bubbly, happy person I remember her as. He took her away physically and emotionally.
And then all of a sudden, the cancer. Stage 4 colon cancer. But she didn't go in for any type of screening like she should have with the history of cancer in our family. She didn't because the "man" she married didn't work. He didn't supply health insurance for her or his five kids. Therefore, by the time they even found it, they had no hope. That's when my closest in age sister and I decided enough was enough. He would create no more barrier. He would ruin no more of our relationship.
We flew out for Thanksgiving. That trip was my favorite. Although, we weren't as close as we used to be, it just took a couple warming up hours to get back. My sister was sick. So skinny. But she had left the waste and was supporting her family alone, while dying. She was sad, but there was a glimmer. I could see her underneath it all. We talked for hours. I told her about my relationship, not much different from hers, and the words that came out of her mouth had come out of mine so many times before. I heard her talking about her husband and I'd said the same things. But I didn't see it with her. He wasn't charming. He wasn't handsome. He was never nice. And then I understood. And, as importantly, someone else finally understood me. She became my idol in the matter of minutes. She was dying. And yet, she had the courage to leave the man who tried to take her light away and turn her into a shell. She was working, straight through her treatments, so her kids could live like normal teenagers. She was so happy to have her family. I was so happy. But like all trips, that one came to an end.
They expected her to pass within months of that trip. But something amazing happened. The cancer stopped growing. I thought that was it. I thought she won. I thought I had the rest of my life to learn from her and be close to her. I was ready to celebrate. But then I got a call saying the doctors had changed her treatment, and the cancer was growing again. I flipped. Why would they change treatments when this one was obviously working?? What the hell were they thinking. The answer I got was that's what Illinois doctors who work on patients with no insurance do. But the doctor's only got maybe 25 percent of the blame I was handing out. That asshole of a man got all of the rest. If he could have just been a man and got her insurance. If he could have just been a man and took her for a screening. If he could have just been a man and loved her. If he could have just been a man.
But he never was. And the cancer persisted. We talked on the phone, my sister and I. She was in and out of it. She fought. She fought hard. And, in the meantime, I was within the exact same relationship she was defending. I wasn't able to spend as much time talking with her or learning how to make all her crafts. I wasn't able to clearly plot a Plan B for her and try to get her out here to the California doctors who are on top of their cancer game. I was too busy fighting. Protecting my brand new baby from alcoholism. I was too busy hating my life, and in the meantime, my sister was slipping away. And the day came. My beautiful, energetic, smart, strong, victimized, martyr of a sister called me from the hospital. I remember the night like it was yesterday. So much fighting. Stinkyface crying incessantly. I was standing at the foot of my bed in the dark, holding a naked baby, and my sister called. She spoke for a while, but I honestly couldn't figure out what she was saying. And then the "I love you's" started. "Take care of that baby girl." "Be good."
I was in shock. I had no idea what to say. At first, the only thing that came out was "no!" and "You're going to be okay." That quickly turned into "I love you. I really love you." That's all I could say. That's the only thing that came out. I regret that now. She passed away. There was no more understanding. There was no more laugh. She was just gone.
For a long time, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if it was real. I was in a fog. The day we spread her ashes was a terrible day. I hated the world. I hated my family. I didn't want to do it. But I did. And it didn't close one door. Still today, I miss my sister with such vigor. There's not a week that doesn't go by when I encounter a craft that I want to ask her about, or a time when I want to ask her what she did when she was in my situation. But I can't. Most days, I convince myself I've dealt with it, until days like today roll around and I so obviously haven't.
So without making it about me completely, my sister was such an inspiration. Not only to me, but to my siblings, and her children. She raised wonderful babies, and I truly hope I can be as brave as she was and pave the way for a bright future for my babies. Only much earlier in their lives. Deb, you are still my idol, and I love and miss you with all of my heart. And again, speechlessness plagues me.
My sister was a young mom. A VERY young mom. And the man who knocked her up was an abusive addict. I remember him as ugly. As scary. And besides that, the only thing else I remember about him is his name. He didn't only abuse my sister, a mom to his two children by 16. He also was abusive to the girls. To me. He was pretty much evil to everyone he came in contact with. But I got to be around my sister and my nieces because they lived nearby, and sometimes, back at home with me. I don't know how or when she got the courage to leave this void of a man, but she did, and I admire her for that.
The problem is, she felt like no one would want a mom of two girls. This, of course, was the 80's people. Not like today where Octomom has suitors in a line down the street. People were stereotypical; superficial. People judged as if they were God. And coming from a past where her own father wasn't around, and her step-father was close to the same, she was wanted that validity. For a man to love her. Again, I don't remember when or how she met him, but she met who was to become her next husband. He was younger. He said the right words. He seemed to have a nice family. He was willing to be with her despite the fact that she had two young girls. He married her and that was the end.
They moved to Japan because he was in the military. My sister was gone. My nieces were gone. They were transplanted into a foreign country with nobody, because my sister was being what she thought a good wife should be. They stayed there for years. My best friends became my pen pals, and eventually the letters faded. We would get depressing video journals from my sister in the mail. They were alone. It was constantly raining. But she always tried to make the best of it, for her girls.
My sister got pregnant with an adorable little girl with her husband. It was right about then I remember them coming back. When they finally came back to the states, they moved to Illinois. You have to understand, my sister was still very young, and all she ever knew was her family and friends in good ol' HB. Now, she was surrounded by his family and friends. Thousands of miles away from us. She stayed there. We visited a couple times and they visited a couple times. When I met the husband, I knew. I didn't like him. Not at all. My sister was beautiful. He was ugly. My sister laughed. He put her down. My sister loved her kids. He resented them. I hated the fact they were together. He caused so much drama, not only in her life, but in the life of my entire family. He was abusive. To everyone. It was the same story.
But my sister couldn't let go. Needless to say, she had two more kids with him. Boys. Didn't treat them any better. And it got worse. He blatantly cheated. Lied. Drank. God knows what else. He openly abused my sister and the kids. And the oldest two, weren't even treated like humans. But this is common is abusive relationships. The manipulation. The draining of self-esteem. The control. My sister was a victimized enabler like my mom. She was no longer the bubbly, happy person I remember her as. He took her away physically and emotionally.
And then all of a sudden, the cancer. Stage 4 colon cancer. But she didn't go in for any type of screening like she should have with the history of cancer in our family. She didn't because the "man" she married didn't work. He didn't supply health insurance for her or his five kids. Therefore, by the time they even found it, they had no hope. That's when my closest in age sister and I decided enough was enough. He would create no more barrier. He would ruin no more of our relationship.
We flew out for Thanksgiving. That trip was my favorite. Although, we weren't as close as we used to be, it just took a couple warming up hours to get back. My sister was sick. So skinny. But she had left the waste and was supporting her family alone, while dying. She was sad, but there was a glimmer. I could see her underneath it all. We talked for hours. I told her about my relationship, not much different from hers, and the words that came out of her mouth had come out of mine so many times before. I heard her talking about her husband and I'd said the same things. But I didn't see it with her. He wasn't charming. He wasn't handsome. He was never nice. And then I understood. And, as importantly, someone else finally understood me. She became my idol in the matter of minutes. She was dying. And yet, she had the courage to leave the man who tried to take her light away and turn her into a shell. She was working, straight through her treatments, so her kids could live like normal teenagers. She was so happy to have her family. I was so happy. But like all trips, that one came to an end.
They expected her to pass within months of that trip. But something amazing happened. The cancer stopped growing. I thought that was it. I thought she won. I thought I had the rest of my life to learn from her and be close to her. I was ready to celebrate. But then I got a call saying the doctors had changed her treatment, and the cancer was growing again. I flipped. Why would they change treatments when this one was obviously working?? What the hell were they thinking. The answer I got was that's what Illinois doctors who work on patients with no insurance do. But the doctor's only got maybe 25 percent of the blame I was handing out. That asshole of a man got all of the rest. If he could have just been a man and got her insurance. If he could have just been a man and took her for a screening. If he could have just been a man and loved her. If he could have just been a man.
But he never was. And the cancer persisted. We talked on the phone, my sister and I. She was in and out of it. She fought. She fought hard. And, in the meantime, I was within the exact same relationship she was defending. I wasn't able to spend as much time talking with her or learning how to make all her crafts. I wasn't able to clearly plot a Plan B for her and try to get her out here to the California doctors who are on top of their cancer game. I was too busy fighting. Protecting my brand new baby from alcoholism. I was too busy hating my life, and in the meantime, my sister was slipping away. And the day came. My beautiful, energetic, smart, strong, victimized, martyr of a sister called me from the hospital. I remember the night like it was yesterday. So much fighting. Stinkyface crying incessantly. I was standing at the foot of my bed in the dark, holding a naked baby, and my sister called. She spoke for a while, but I honestly couldn't figure out what she was saying. And then the "I love you's" started. "Take care of that baby girl." "Be good."
I was in shock. I had no idea what to say. At first, the only thing that came out was "no!" and "You're going to be okay." That quickly turned into "I love you. I really love you." That's all I could say. That's the only thing that came out. I regret that now. She passed away. There was no more understanding. There was no more laugh. She was just gone.
For a long time, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if it was real. I was in a fog. The day we spread her ashes was a terrible day. I hated the world. I hated my family. I didn't want to do it. But I did. And it didn't close one door. Still today, I miss my sister with such vigor. There's not a week that doesn't go by when I encounter a craft that I want to ask her about, or a time when I want to ask her what she did when she was in my situation. But I can't. Most days, I convince myself I've dealt with it, until days like today roll around and I so obviously haven't.
So without making it about me completely, my sister was such an inspiration. Not only to me, but to my siblings, and her children. She raised wonderful babies, and I truly hope I can be as brave as she was and pave the way for a bright future for my babies. Only much earlier in their lives. Deb, you are still my idol, and I love and miss you with all of my heart. And again, speechlessness plagues me.
Monday, November 29, 2010
The Other Kids
Now, to roundup and conclude the parental situation, my mom stayed that way. She stayed forgetful. She stayed silly. She stayed somewhat in the form of a four year old. My dad, also, stayed the same. The sober increased. The drunk decreased. What did change, however, was the polite. As time went on, my dad's patience with my forgetful mom ran thin. The ugly words came back. But this time, my mom didn't fight back. She didn't remember how to. But she learned. The frequent practice of bickering and yelling taught her to yell again. Not nearly as effectively (at least, what I thought was effective when I was a child) but she yelled back. And these are my parents today. A naive, innocent, forgetful, and sometimes as annoying as a pesky 4 year old mother, and a dad who rarely drinks, but when he does, he does it right. In the last couple "drunks" as he calls it, he actually suffered alcohol poisoning, nearly died from a piece of meat being stuck in his throat for a week, and half of his face stayed numb for about a month. For some reason, he won't swear it off. It will be the death of him.
As I proofread my posts, I realize that I left out the entire rest of my family in all of this venting. I did have five brothers and sisters during all of this, where did they fit in? They impacted me as well, both positively and negatively; I guess just not as loudly. So, here's the condensed version of the most memorable sibling moments.
Oldest sister. I wasn't extremely impacted by her as a child. Moreso, it was her children I was close to, as we were the same age. She, too, had an abusive and addicted husband from a young age. But I do remember she was beautiful. And she had a laugh you would never forget. She finally left the jerk after a handful of ugly years, met another stand-up character, and moved away to Japan with him, taking my best friends; my nieces. That was pretty much the extent of my childhood memories with my oldest sister until recent years, where in her early 40s she was diagnosed with colon cancer. This is when I really learned who she was, and what she stood for. She was sooo much like me, and I felt like someone really understood me finally. But then, she was taken from me. I was struggling with a brand new baby in a toxic period of my relationship, and I got what was to be the last phone call I would ever get from her. I could barely understand her because she was so sick from the cancer, and I was so mad that she couldn't just get over it like my mom did. I was just getting to know her and she was the only one who understood me. But nothing changed anything. She passed away in the next couple of days. It was only a bit later I received the baby blanket she made for my little Stinkyface. Needless to say, that was just a couple of years ago. The healing is still in the process.
Second oldest sister. Again, not many memories. I remember, again, that she was beautiful. I also remember her as tough. She wouldn't be bullied. She fought back the most against my belligerent father. I thought she was so brave. And she had some of the cutest kids. Again I was close to my nephew more than my sister, but I remember her fondly because she had a pet name for me. She unfortunately was hindered by addiction as well, and I got to see her very randomly and with very different attitudes. I remember the day I stopped thinking she was so wonderful and protective with my dad, as if it were yesterday. That was the day I realized she was an addict. Needless to say, I didn't see her for around 10 years until just recently. I feared I would never see her again, and I am now very thankful that she is safe and we are in contact. But, she missed so much. And, she missed the passing away of my sister; her sister. Again, the healing is still in the process.
Oldest brother. He was definitely around. He was loud. Obnoxious. Handsome. Funny. We shared the same birthday, 15 years apart. I loved his girlfriend, who became his wife. I loved his children like they were mine. And then reality hit. He too, was an abusive alcoholic addict. He had serious problems. This is when I really started to worry. I didn't understand why all of these people had these addictions. I didn't even understand addiction. Just stop! Why can't you just stop? But he couldn't. He tried. And then he didn't. It was so sad to watch so many great people around me turn into monsters that I knew wasn't really them. But there was nothing I could do or say to change anything. Fast forward. My brother is still loud, obnoxious, handsome and funny. We still share the same birthday. He is still an alcoholic addict. Really, the only thing that has changed is that he is no longer married and I missed out on a bunch of years with some of my favorite nieces and nephews...of course, that is the case with almost all of my nieces and nephews.
Second oldest brother. He was so much fun. He flew all of us on his legs and did flips. He taught us how to play all of the latest video games, and when I was a teenager, he would let me hide in his room and use the computer or watch the latest dvd. He never became an addict or even drank an ounce of alcohol as far as I knew. But, we never really became too close. Just pleasant sibling encounters.
Third oldest sister. This was my closest sibling. She admittedly hated me when I was little. I stole her thunder. All of a sudden, 7 years later, she wasn't the baby anymore. But I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to do what she was doing. I wanted to tell her all my problems. I wanted, again, to do her homework for her. With her, I have the most memories. We fought dirty. She got in trouble for it. She would get in trouble at the dinner table, or coming in late as a teenager, and I would think of some way I could take any of her trouble and put it on me instead. That never worked. She talked back and stood her ground, even if it was within moronic teenage reasoning. I admired that. When what happened to my mom happened, my sister controlled what she could of the situation. That's what she did. She controlled. Again, I admired that. She kind of became my mom. She made sure I got to school, did my homework, got A's. She payed attention to me and my moods, and would drive me around until I finally told her my problems, and force me, then, to eat ice cream until I felt better. Okay, maybe not forced. But I did the same for her. I interviewed her boyfriends; her friends even. I made her open up and communicate, something controllers don't like to do. Fast forward. We have kids at the same times. We promote each others healthy individualism. We vent to each other. We joke together. Basically, we're two decently adjusted products of our environment, who subsequently became great friends through it all. I'm thankful I've had her through it all.
As I proofread my posts, I realize that I left out the entire rest of my family in all of this venting. I did have five brothers and sisters during all of this, where did they fit in? They impacted me as well, both positively and negatively; I guess just not as loudly. So, here's the condensed version of the most memorable sibling moments.
Oldest sister. I wasn't extremely impacted by her as a child. Moreso, it was her children I was close to, as we were the same age. She, too, had an abusive and addicted husband from a young age. But I do remember she was beautiful. And she had a laugh you would never forget. She finally left the jerk after a handful of ugly years, met another stand-up character, and moved away to Japan with him, taking my best friends; my nieces. That was pretty much the extent of my childhood memories with my oldest sister until recent years, where in her early 40s she was diagnosed with colon cancer. This is when I really learned who she was, and what she stood for. She was sooo much like me, and I felt like someone really understood me finally. But then, she was taken from me. I was struggling with a brand new baby in a toxic period of my relationship, and I got what was to be the last phone call I would ever get from her. I could barely understand her because she was so sick from the cancer, and I was so mad that she couldn't just get over it like my mom did. I was just getting to know her and she was the only one who understood me. But nothing changed anything. She passed away in the next couple of days. It was only a bit later I received the baby blanket she made for my little Stinkyface. Needless to say, that was just a couple of years ago. The healing is still in the process.
Second oldest sister. Again, not many memories. I remember, again, that she was beautiful. I also remember her as tough. She wouldn't be bullied. She fought back the most against my belligerent father. I thought she was so brave. And she had some of the cutest kids. Again I was close to my nephew more than my sister, but I remember her fondly because she had a pet name for me. She unfortunately was hindered by addiction as well, and I got to see her very randomly and with very different attitudes. I remember the day I stopped thinking she was so wonderful and protective with my dad, as if it were yesterday. That was the day I realized she was an addict. Needless to say, I didn't see her for around 10 years until just recently. I feared I would never see her again, and I am now very thankful that she is safe and we are in contact. But, she missed so much. And, she missed the passing away of my sister; her sister. Again, the healing is still in the process.
Oldest brother. He was definitely around. He was loud. Obnoxious. Handsome. Funny. We shared the same birthday, 15 years apart. I loved his girlfriend, who became his wife. I loved his children like they were mine. And then reality hit. He too, was an abusive alcoholic addict. He had serious problems. This is when I really started to worry. I didn't understand why all of these people had these addictions. I didn't even understand addiction. Just stop! Why can't you just stop? But he couldn't. He tried. And then he didn't. It was so sad to watch so many great people around me turn into monsters that I knew wasn't really them. But there was nothing I could do or say to change anything. Fast forward. My brother is still loud, obnoxious, handsome and funny. We still share the same birthday. He is still an alcoholic addict. Really, the only thing that has changed is that he is no longer married and I missed out on a bunch of years with some of my favorite nieces and nephews...of course, that is the case with almost all of my nieces and nephews.
Second oldest brother. He was so much fun. He flew all of us on his legs and did flips. He taught us how to play all of the latest video games, and when I was a teenager, he would let me hide in his room and use the computer or watch the latest dvd. He never became an addict or even drank an ounce of alcohol as far as I knew. But, we never really became too close. Just pleasant sibling encounters.
Third oldest sister. This was my closest sibling. She admittedly hated me when I was little. I stole her thunder. All of a sudden, 7 years later, she wasn't the baby anymore. But I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to do what she was doing. I wanted to tell her all my problems. I wanted, again, to do her homework for her. With her, I have the most memories. We fought dirty. She got in trouble for it. She would get in trouble at the dinner table, or coming in late as a teenager, and I would think of some way I could take any of her trouble and put it on me instead. That never worked. She talked back and stood her ground, even if it was within moronic teenage reasoning. I admired that. When what happened to my mom happened, my sister controlled what she could of the situation. That's what she did. She controlled. Again, I admired that. She kind of became my mom. She made sure I got to school, did my homework, got A's. She payed attention to me and my moods, and would drive me around until I finally told her my problems, and force me, then, to eat ice cream until I felt better. Okay, maybe not forced. But I did the same for her. I interviewed her boyfriends; her friends even. I made her open up and communicate, something controllers don't like to do. Fast forward. We have kids at the same times. We promote each others healthy individualism. We vent to each other. We joke together. Basically, we're two decently adjusted products of our environment, who subsequently became great friends through it all. I'm thankful I've had her through it all.
Me. Volume 2.
After a little recovery time, on, on we go. Looking back into my childhood, before age 8, I remember very little past what I've already described. A few other memories include my brother and his girlfriend allowing me to watch Nightmare on Elm Street at an age appropriate 6ish (my own nightmares of Freddy lasted a good 5 years after that!), as well as a few games of tether ball in the front yard, and that pitiful day my favorite tree was dug up while I was at school. I remember knocking on my sister's locked bedroom door begging her to let me help her with her homework (of which I couldn't read or write, and she, being 7 years my elder, probably had algebra or some other "Greek" studies I couldn't begin to comprehend.) Anyways, the memories continue, this random, and this vague.
A little later, we find out my mom has lung cancer. Probably from the pack a day habit she had for as long as I was alive at least. Being so young, I don't remember much of the technical hospital stuff, as I wasn't involved, but I do remember they had to perform surgery to remove my mom's lung, and the chance of recovery they gave her was slim to none. This changed everything. My dad stopped drinking, kinda. We started eating dinner as a family at the dinner table and saying grace. None of these changes were comfortable for me. I didn't have my mom at home. All of a sudden I had no idea what to expect from my father, and I had no clue what saying grace was or why we had to do it. Life, as I knew it, was forever changed. And I was angry.
Long story short, the surgery went okay. And my mom was home but on extreme chemo and medication. She was very sick. But she was there. She wasn't yelling and screaming all the time anymore. And randomly, I don't really remember what was going on with my dad during this time. Life kind of just stopped.
Fast forward a couple of years. My mom was doing well. The cancer was gone and my mom was in a much better mood than prior to the cancer. My dad was sober more often, but that meant more attempts at discipline from him, which, in my preteen condition, made me more rebellious. And if it wasn't enough, my sister was a seemingly perfect example of a child. I had to live up to her amazing grades and good behavior. Around this time, my mom started spending some of her hoarded money on me and after school programs. I was able to dance and play sports because my mom saved money she was given for groceries for the family. But then, something else happened.
My mom started having migraines. Serious migraines. Migraines that affected her day to day. It was chalked up to depression and stress. Until the seizures started. Now, diabetes doesn't run in my family, and for all I knew, seizures were only linked to diabetes. I had no idea what was happening, being only 9 or 10 and never witnessing anything even as remotely serious as a seizure. My mom just started convulsing. My sister called 911 and I freaked out. By the time the ambulance got to our house, my mom showed signs of being conscious again. I sighed in relief. Then, I just observed. I watched the EMTs lock my mom down on the gurney and then they wheeled her down the driveway. I followed like a lost puppy dog. They asked her questions like, "What's your name? What year is it? Where are you?" She answered all the questions correctly. Then I took charge. "Do you know my name?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. "What is it?" I asked. "Umm....I...it will come to me." All I could think is, "How does a mom forget her own daughter's name?"
The only thing I remember for the next couple of years is crying. My mom's cancer came back in the form of brain cancer. She had multiple surgeries, of which some were not completely necessary come to find out. They took out part of her memory, which left her with minimal long term memory and practically no short term memory. We had to teach her everything all over again. And this is why she didn't know me. But she learned. And I learned. And one day I stopped. I stopped all my adolescent nonsense. I saw my mom for who she was finally. She wasn't depressed and resentful because she forgot she was. She wasn't angry and spiteful because she forgot she was. She was happy. She was loving. She was maternal and caring. She was personable and entertaining. I was able to see my mom outside of the abusive shadow and all of a sudden she was in a glowing beam of light. I was happy.
My dad became increasingly less drunk and participated more. We were able to talk more. The trust we built during the sober times could almost be considered the demise of the trust during the drunken times, however. I would cry to him while he was drinking. I would explain what his alcoholism was doing to me. To the family. To him. He cared. I knew he did because he cried. I knew he did because he said he did. I knew he did because he vowed to stop.
But he didn't. He kept drinking. He kept drinking until he was mad again. He would explain to me how he really only wanted my oldest brother; how he never really wanted me. And that would continue into how his behaviors had affected my brother's life, and that would continue into what a terrible childhood he, himself had. This is what my dad's binges were made up of. But the sober was good.
A little later, we find out my mom has lung cancer. Probably from the pack a day habit she had for as long as I was alive at least. Being so young, I don't remember much of the technical hospital stuff, as I wasn't involved, but I do remember they had to perform surgery to remove my mom's lung, and the chance of recovery they gave her was slim to none. This changed everything. My dad stopped drinking, kinda. We started eating dinner as a family at the dinner table and saying grace. None of these changes were comfortable for me. I didn't have my mom at home. All of a sudden I had no idea what to expect from my father, and I had no clue what saying grace was or why we had to do it. Life, as I knew it, was forever changed. And I was angry.
Long story short, the surgery went okay. And my mom was home but on extreme chemo and medication. She was very sick. But she was there. She wasn't yelling and screaming all the time anymore. And randomly, I don't really remember what was going on with my dad during this time. Life kind of just stopped.
Fast forward a couple of years. My mom was doing well. The cancer was gone and my mom was in a much better mood than prior to the cancer. My dad was sober more often, but that meant more attempts at discipline from him, which, in my preteen condition, made me more rebellious. And if it wasn't enough, my sister was a seemingly perfect example of a child. I had to live up to her amazing grades and good behavior. Around this time, my mom started spending some of her hoarded money on me and after school programs. I was able to dance and play sports because my mom saved money she was given for groceries for the family. But then, something else happened.
My mom started having migraines. Serious migraines. Migraines that affected her day to day. It was chalked up to depression and stress. Until the seizures started. Now, diabetes doesn't run in my family, and for all I knew, seizures were only linked to diabetes. I had no idea what was happening, being only 9 or 10 and never witnessing anything even as remotely serious as a seizure. My mom just started convulsing. My sister called 911 and I freaked out. By the time the ambulance got to our house, my mom showed signs of being conscious again. I sighed in relief. Then, I just observed. I watched the EMTs lock my mom down on the gurney and then they wheeled her down the driveway. I followed like a lost puppy dog. They asked her questions like, "What's your name? What year is it? Where are you?" She answered all the questions correctly. Then I took charge. "Do you know my name?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. "What is it?" I asked. "Umm....I...it will come to me." All I could think is, "How does a mom forget her own daughter's name?"
The only thing I remember for the next couple of years is crying. My mom's cancer came back in the form of brain cancer. She had multiple surgeries, of which some were not completely necessary come to find out. They took out part of her memory, which left her with minimal long term memory and practically no short term memory. We had to teach her everything all over again. And this is why she didn't know me. But she learned. And I learned. And one day I stopped. I stopped all my adolescent nonsense. I saw my mom for who she was finally. She wasn't depressed and resentful because she forgot she was. She wasn't angry and spiteful because she forgot she was. She was happy. She was loving. She was maternal and caring. She was personable and entertaining. I was able to see my mom outside of the abusive shadow and all of a sudden she was in a glowing beam of light. I was happy.
My dad became increasingly less drunk and participated more. We were able to talk more. The trust we built during the sober times could almost be considered the demise of the trust during the drunken times, however. I would cry to him while he was drinking. I would explain what his alcoholism was doing to me. To the family. To him. He cared. I knew he did because he cried. I knew he did because he said he did. I knew he did because he vowed to stop.
But he didn't. He kept drinking. He kept drinking until he was mad again. He would explain to me how he really only wanted my oldest brother; how he never really wanted me. And that would continue into how his behaviors had affected my brother's life, and that would continue into what a terrible childhood he, himself had. This is what my dad's binges were made up of. But the sober was good.
Me. Volume 1.
I put my makeup on today with more fervor than I ever remember before, you would think it was Christmas morning. But, it's only November 29th. 8:07am. Making coffee this morning, I had a brilliant idea. Why not use this blog to it's potential?? Why not allow this venting to be more than my take on politics or ethics, but also use it to heal me. So that I may become the strongest me I can be for me and my children?? It's not like my one, single reader will mind a little personal info here and there. And through this personal vomiting of emotions, I should be able to recognize habits and make solid changes. Enough rambling.
I don't remember much about being a child, especially a small child. One of the two of the earliest memories I have of my life was when I was approximately 4 or 5 years old, in tears, climbing the big tree in my front yard to hide and get away from the yelling and screaming going on inside my house. The other memory was being yelled at by my sister's husband when I was around 3 or 4, while playing with my nieces on one of those tiny Fisher Price slides, because children aren't supposed to be laughing, having fun, inside the house. Yes, this is the disfunction I call my upbringing.
I'm sure I don't remember anything because it was all so terrible. An alcoholic, abusive father. And a victimized, enabling mother. I was the baby out of six kids, all who were, in today's view, practically grown when I came around. My days, of which I can remember, were saved first, from afternoon soap operas, and then from school. My mom wasn't yelling as long as she was watching her soaps. And I couldn't hear any yelling while I was at school. Another saving grace was that my father worked long days most of the time, I think. The beligerent screaming and emotional and psychological abuse didn't start until well into the night, typically. But we knew when it was about to start. There were common precursors, the most common of which was my frantic mom scrambling to get the house immaculate and screaming out orders that we kids should clean or else our rear-ends would be in pain. It was never enough though. My dad wasn't satisfied if we had baked cookies. It wasn't enough that dinner was ready for him on the table if he decided to be sober enough to stumble inside once in a while. Why is there a fur ball on the floor. Stupid cat. *Cue the cat getting thrown across the room* But my mom was our martyr. She took most of the abuse. Of course until he started in on the oldest kids, of whom most stood up for themselves pretty well. Needless to say, there were a lot of broken dishes, holes in the walls, and that poor cat took a few herself.
Not only that, my mom was given a ridiculously measly allowance for the family. A family of three couldn't survive off what my dad gave her for the two of them and the six kids. But she did her best. She cut coupons, and made sure to shop only where they doubled them. She got the government milk and cheese. She made what I remember to be gourmet meals off a dime. And she saved the rest. Well, in reality, she hoarded the rest. Along with a lot of other stuff. But who could blame her. When my dad got home, she was given the third degree on how every single penny was spent, and how dare she spend SO much here and SO much there. I just remember feeling sorry for her and wondering how I could take some of the blame to make it easier.
Now, I have good memories too. I remember taking my brother to CAP and laying my head on his shoulder. I remember my dad being home one day, and racing me down the sidewalk. (Of course, I don't remember how he got to the finish line without falling, but it was funny enough to remember as happy.) I also remember teaching myself to read the little beginner yellow books (See Spot Run) and showing it to my mom and dad in one of the other habitual actions my dad would do in his stupor; sit next to my mom and slur the words, "I love you. Do you know how much I love you?" And it would eventually turn into a much louder, "How do you not know how much I love you?? I do all of this for you." But needless to say, I read about Spot running, what seemed to be a marathon, in the middle of my mom and dad, on the couch in the dark living room. Another positive memory.
I suppose if that is enough for me for the day, that is plenty for my one reader. I will make sure to continue the group...I mean...personal therapy tomorrow. Thanks for listening.
I don't remember much about being a child, especially a small child. One of the two of the earliest memories I have of my life was when I was approximately 4 or 5 years old, in tears, climbing the big tree in my front yard to hide and get away from the yelling and screaming going on inside my house. The other memory was being yelled at by my sister's husband when I was around 3 or 4, while playing with my nieces on one of those tiny Fisher Price slides, because children aren't supposed to be laughing, having fun, inside the house. Yes, this is the disfunction I call my upbringing.
I'm sure I don't remember anything because it was all so terrible. An alcoholic, abusive father. And a victimized, enabling mother. I was the baby out of six kids, all who were, in today's view, practically grown when I came around. My days, of which I can remember, were saved first, from afternoon soap operas, and then from school. My mom wasn't yelling as long as she was watching her soaps. And I couldn't hear any yelling while I was at school. Another saving grace was that my father worked long days most of the time, I think. The beligerent screaming and emotional and psychological abuse didn't start until well into the night, typically. But we knew when it was about to start. There were common precursors, the most common of which was my frantic mom scrambling to get the house immaculate and screaming out orders that we kids should clean or else our rear-ends would be in pain. It was never enough though. My dad wasn't satisfied if we had baked cookies. It wasn't enough that dinner was ready for him on the table if he decided to be sober enough to stumble inside once in a while. Why is there a fur ball on the floor. Stupid cat. *Cue the cat getting thrown across the room* But my mom was our martyr. She took most of the abuse. Of course until he started in on the oldest kids, of whom most stood up for themselves pretty well. Needless to say, there were a lot of broken dishes, holes in the walls, and that poor cat took a few herself.
Not only that, my mom was given a ridiculously measly allowance for the family. A family of three couldn't survive off what my dad gave her for the two of them and the six kids. But she did her best. She cut coupons, and made sure to shop only where they doubled them. She got the government milk and cheese. She made what I remember to be gourmet meals off a dime. And she saved the rest. Well, in reality, she hoarded the rest. Along with a lot of other stuff. But who could blame her. When my dad got home, she was given the third degree on how every single penny was spent, and how dare she spend SO much here and SO much there. I just remember feeling sorry for her and wondering how I could take some of the blame to make it easier.
Now, I have good memories too. I remember taking my brother to CAP and laying my head on his shoulder. I remember my dad being home one day, and racing me down the sidewalk. (Of course, I don't remember how he got to the finish line without falling, but it was funny enough to remember as happy.) I also remember teaching myself to read the little beginner yellow books (See Spot Run) and showing it to my mom and dad in one of the other habitual actions my dad would do in his stupor; sit next to my mom and slur the words, "I love you. Do you know how much I love you?" And it would eventually turn into a much louder, "How do you not know how much I love you?? I do all of this for you." But needless to say, I read about Spot running, what seemed to be a marathon, in the middle of my mom and dad, on the couch in the dark living room. Another positive memory.
I suppose if that is enough for me for the day, that is plenty for my one reader. I will make sure to continue the group...I mean...personal therapy tomorrow. Thanks for listening.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Turkey Day
As I take this time to re-enter the world of blog, I find myself being very introspective, and festively, very thankful. Actually, this is a feeling of the past few months, but the ol' gobble gobble has me feeling a little extra special thankful. You see, I've learned over the last few months, more of who I am and where my breaking points are. I've learned what being a mother to a smart and beautiful little girl will do to me, and more recently, what being a mommy to an adorable little boy will do. And for these things I am thankful.
I have also concluded that Thanksgiving is a time for change. While we decide what it is about our lives that we are thankful for and excited about everyday, it is then which we should vow to change the opposite things in our lives that bring us down. Not two months later, after a long night and a headache. It's the turkey time of year, at least for me, that I choose to eliminate the people, places, and things that don't make me the best I can be. For example, I find myself practically cussing out the drivers every morning on my route to preschool. Every day it's the same story with either the same or different bad drivers. Today, I decided, it is time for me to purge this negative route from my daily routine. I am not a good example when I'm yelling at people where the gas pedal is or that their phone should not be in front of their faces texting when I'm trying to get my kids safely to school. And what will happen when I go to pick Stinkyface up?? I am going to go a different way. I will not be angry or hostile at the same people because I expected the same routine. I will be happy that I don't know where all the cops with nothing better to do are hiding, so it can become an Easter egg hunt of sorts.
This kind of life editing has begun and will continue to occur with things in my life. I've said it before, and hopefully it will be a long time before I say it again. I pick up the same mess everyday. The same toys. The same clothes. The same dishes. And randomly enough, they always seem to be in the same places. These toys, clothes, and dishes are out. If I'm going to be looking at a mess, I want the colors to be different. I want the styles to be different. I don't want it to be so monotonous that it brings me down every day. I want it to be as interesting and exciting as cleaning possibly can be. I've already purged my entire wardrobe minus the workout clothes, and Stinkyface and Dinosaur's closets are open! It's all about being the best me I can be no matter what the circumstance.
Which leads me finally, to people. I was told once by someone who used to be close to me, that we don't choose our families or the people who come with our spouses. I've always agreed and thought that to be true, although recently I was told that was rude. I don't know, I still kind of believe it. The only people you actually choose to be in your life are your friends. And friends, in my opinion, should always be like-minded individuals who bring you up and bring out the best in you. Not people you are comfortable with dealing with or let you fall because that's where they are.
I've been extremely fortunate in my choice of friends. I can honestly say those people I have chosen as my friends are like-minded, and always bring out the best in me. These are not things I can say, necessarily about the people I didn't choose, but in their defense, it's okay. They don't have to because I don't have to be around them. They didn't choose me either, and it's very possible, I don't bring out the best in them, because again, it's about a common ground. People in two totally different hemispheres can't just one day decide to be twinsies and wear the same outfit. The weather will be completely different for each of them. This proves true in everyday life. Two people in two different places in their lives can't pretend to be in the same place. That will create bitterness and resentment in both people. That is why my rule of thumb is, and always has been, when the timing's right, enjoy the moment. Stay away the rest of the time. Sounds rude, but in reality, it saves the folks involved the negative feelings and creates a however tiny, good memory.
So this Thanksgiving, my resolutions are to commit to being the best me I can be for my biggest thanks of all; my babies. I will omit the negative, and embrace the positive. Happy Turkey Day!!
I have also concluded that Thanksgiving is a time for change. While we decide what it is about our lives that we are thankful for and excited about everyday, it is then which we should vow to change the opposite things in our lives that bring us down. Not two months later, after a long night and a headache. It's the turkey time of year, at least for me, that I choose to eliminate the people, places, and things that don't make me the best I can be. For example, I find myself practically cussing out the drivers every morning on my route to preschool. Every day it's the same story with either the same or different bad drivers. Today, I decided, it is time for me to purge this negative route from my daily routine. I am not a good example when I'm yelling at people where the gas pedal is or that their phone should not be in front of their faces texting when I'm trying to get my kids safely to school. And what will happen when I go to pick Stinkyface up?? I am going to go a different way. I will not be angry or hostile at the same people because I expected the same routine. I will be happy that I don't know where all the cops with nothing better to do are hiding, so it can become an Easter egg hunt of sorts.
This kind of life editing has begun and will continue to occur with things in my life. I've said it before, and hopefully it will be a long time before I say it again. I pick up the same mess everyday. The same toys. The same clothes. The same dishes. And randomly enough, they always seem to be in the same places. These toys, clothes, and dishes are out. If I'm going to be looking at a mess, I want the colors to be different. I want the styles to be different. I don't want it to be so monotonous that it brings me down every day. I want it to be as interesting and exciting as cleaning possibly can be. I've already purged my entire wardrobe minus the workout clothes, and Stinkyface and Dinosaur's closets are open! It's all about being the best me I can be no matter what the circumstance.
Which leads me finally, to people. I was told once by someone who used to be close to me, that we don't choose our families or the people who come with our spouses. I've always agreed and thought that to be true, although recently I was told that was rude. I don't know, I still kind of believe it. The only people you actually choose to be in your life are your friends. And friends, in my opinion, should always be like-minded individuals who bring you up and bring out the best in you. Not people you are comfortable with dealing with or let you fall because that's where they are.
I've been extremely fortunate in my choice of friends. I can honestly say those people I have chosen as my friends are like-minded, and always bring out the best in me. These are not things I can say, necessarily about the people I didn't choose, but in their defense, it's okay. They don't have to because I don't have to be around them. They didn't choose me either, and it's very possible, I don't bring out the best in them, because again, it's about a common ground. People in two totally different hemispheres can't just one day decide to be twinsies and wear the same outfit. The weather will be completely different for each of them. This proves true in everyday life. Two people in two different places in their lives can't pretend to be in the same place. That will create bitterness and resentment in both people. That is why my rule of thumb is, and always has been, when the timing's right, enjoy the moment. Stay away the rest of the time. Sounds rude, but in reality, it saves the folks involved the negative feelings and creates a however tiny, good memory.
So this Thanksgiving, my resolutions are to commit to being the best me I can be for my biggest thanks of all; my babies. I will omit the negative, and embrace the positive. Happy Turkey Day!!
Friday, November 21, 2008
TMZ...Another Important Broadcast
While I sit here contemplating whether to nap or blog, I'm unable to free my mind of the image of the little boy from London allowed to receive innumerable beatings from his mother and her boyfriend, until his unfortunate death. This hasn't been talked about here in the States much, but I've done extensive research on it, and I'm honestly haunted. How does anybody harm a child??
This baby was only 17 months old, and had already internalized the abuse of a lifetime. His entire life was 
filled with punching, choking, kicking, biting, scratching...and it was all inflicted on him. A sadistic sorry excuse for a human being and her live-in again, disgusting piece of worthlessness called a boyfriend, and, (get this) HIS brother all took turns wailing on this child like some raggdoll given to them as a stress reliever. This poor baby's fingertips were cut off. He had 8 broken ribs. Knocked out teeth were found in his own colon. His bruises were covered purposefully by chocolate. Severe lacerations to his face and head. A broken back. And all of this being said, it was not enough for the police or government to remove this child permanently from this household. A household where human feces was painted on the walls. Where dogs roamed free to piss on any baby bottle or toy they so pleased. Where a 17 month old baby's mother laughed at her boyfriend breaking her own child's back. Where cigarettes were more important than a young life. What the hell is wrong with London???
filled with punching, choking, kicking, biting, scratching...and it was all inflicted on him. A sadistic sorry excuse for a human being and her live-in again, disgusting piece of worthlessness called a boyfriend, and, (get this) HIS brother all took turns wailing on this child like some raggdoll given to them as a stress reliever. This poor baby's fingertips were cut off. He had 8 broken ribs. Knocked out teeth were found in his own colon. His bruises were covered purposefully by chocolate. Severe lacerations to his face and head. A broken back. And all of this being said, it was not enough for the police or government to remove this child permanently from this household. A household where human feces was painted on the walls. Where dogs roamed free to piss on any baby bottle or toy they so pleased. Where a 17 month old baby's mother laughed at her boyfriend breaking her own child's back. Where cigarettes were more important than a young life. What the hell is wrong with London???
With Social Services and doctors involved, this child could have been saved. Instead, he was pawned off to a "family friend" for a month until the baby's mother was released from one of her many stays in jail and then returned to his living hell. This brings me to my own country's retardation. We are spending billions and billions of dollars to bully another country into maintaining our condescending excuse for Democracy, who clearly don't want to adopt western ideals and are happy with the way their day-to-day is, and yet we sit back and ignore an obviously skewed take on American Social Services in our sister country. I don't get it. I don't understand why I turn on the news and watch yet another suicide bomber kill my brothers and sisters and never get the chance to learn about poor Baby Peter who is tortured by those who are supposed to protect him. It seems like it would be less expensive and more productive to spend our time and resources educating a country that is willing to listen to us about Child Protective Services and Social Services. It may help one of the four children killed in Britain a day by abuse. It just might save some precious baby's life, who just may pay it forward, and before we know it, society may actually become scrupulous again. We might actually have morals and boundaries. We might teach our little girls that they are worth more than the stripper poles they see in every rich teenage girl's bedroom on MTV. We might teach our little boys that they need to respect women and not just dine, do and ditch 'em like we see on practically every scripted television program. This tragic story of Baby P is just a branch on a huge tree of disarray and lack of moral foundation we call "Today's Generation."
I don't know what happened to values, but they just aren't being taught anymore. Now, it's cool for parents to drink and smoke pot with their tweens and teens. At least they're cool right?? And that's definitely all that matters. And then when drunk and wasted little Tracey has sex with the high, sad Joe Dirt wannabe neighbor Steve in good ol' White Trashville, USA and ends up giving birth to unassuming Peter Connolly, all the party sesh's with mommy and daddy really pay off. Tracey and Steven play War Sargeant and use all the cool fighting tactics they can only imagine are used in the fancy war games the kids in L.A. play on their PS2, as they take a toke from the bong and laugh like it wasn't real life. This is what's happening. This is real life. This is why I so never wanted to bring a child into this world, and now I have to do everything I can to teach Stinkyface that no matter how lame her peers will tell her I and my rules are, that she should maintain her morals and values. Why doesn't everybody feel the desperation of the situation?? Why isn't this front page news all the time everywhere?? Why aren't their shows about it on when TMZ is on?? Kids don't get it by themselves. Are we really going to sit back and allow fat losers to murder babies?? Is this really okay??
As a recap to the original story, everyone was cleared of murder somehow. They have been convicted with causing or allowing a baby's death, which carries a maximum sentence of 14 years. 14 years. You could practically get the same sentence if you don't pay your taxes for 17 months. No murder. And from what I've learned, its not a matter of London not being strict with their laws, but in fact being too strict to the point the people in charge are stretched too thin to be progressive. Whatever the reason, something has to change. I strongly urge everyone to get involved. I truly believe in the trickle down theory. A little help will trickle down to everyone eventually. Please make your life more worth it and help a child!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)