There should be no shame in the truth.

awkward banner

 

I look at my life…

I see my beautiful children.
I see my awesome husband.
I see the amazing family we have,
And the life we’ve built together.

A life we’ve built up our hopes for…

All I can think about is that I have set myself up for so much heartache.

I mean, it could go many ways…. life might end up storybook, Disney Princess perfectly. I may end this life totally happy, healthy, and with no regrets… but if anything goes wrong… which is inevitable because Disney LIED 😂 and life isn’t perfect in any way and that’s what makes it life …. ipso facto, I have set myself up for some pretty intense destruction of heart.

There’s really no way around it, but I think about 1000 things every day that could ruin our lives… and every day I find new things to obsess about and lose sleep over. I have a hard time controlling it. Well, I could take opioids. But that’s not an option for me.

My 4 beautiful children were all born as perfect as they could be… my school age child excels in every subject and tests off the charts, my three littles are so far ahead of milestones I don’t even pay attention to the “your baby this week” emails anymore… I have not been through what so many mothers have been through who have kids with disabilities, or have been diagnosed with this, that, or the other. The impossible hurdles… the sleepless, sometimes hopeless nights…. the loss of a child……… But I fear it, and have ridiculous violent flashes and end up crying about what *could* happen. I’ve seen and read what so many others have gone through, it makes it hard to *just* appreciate and cherish the fact that my children have been, thus far…. completely happy and healthy… I feel overwhelmed with guilt because parenthood has been so easy for me, compared to how hard it has been for others; it’s hard to let myself be present. I can’t stop scrutinizing every little thing I do that affects what they do, and end up losing my temper feeling like I’ve already ruined any shred of hope my kids have at normalcy. I’m constantly looking for something to go wrong… always thinking I, along with my children, couldn’t possibly deserve a life so… good, calm, easy… where’s my drinking problem? Where are the hardships? Learning disabilities? Health problems?!? Car accidents?!? WHERE IS ALL THE FUCKED UP STUFF THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPENING?! And I know I’m screwing them up just thinking it. I know I will regret this, wasting time just thinking about it eats me up inside. My older self hates me. Selfish, stupid girl, it’s right there, right in front of you, just chill out. Simmer…

My husband is not perfect. But he is so amazing. He is my best friend. I can actually say that. We have had our trials, but we’ve always loved each other so much… he’s my person. He is the only man I’ve ever been in love with. I find it hard to believe that I found someone who not only can deal with my crap, but…. likes me?!? 😂 He doesn’t drink, he’s never laid a hand on me or the kids, and I can’t imagine an instance in which he would. He is kind, and patient, and everything I could have wished for in a spouse. I continuously have trouble accepting it… I can’t realistically be this happy, there’s gotta be a secret family in another town… he must be cheating… or gay…. or a RULL good liar…. or he’s gotta start beating me soon, or something… and so, I have this nagging voice that says it will all just fall apart, or something awful will happen… so I rarely allow myself to enjoy being with someone who I genuinely enjoy being with. That doesn’t make for a happy, healthy marriage. 😵 If I lose him…. I don’t know what I’ll do. It sounds like a cheesy cliché… but I would probably not remarry if we divorced or, Gawwwd forbid, he died. I just couldn’t be with anybody else. 💖 Nobody else gets it.

So this train better just keep on chugging down the tracks, nevermind my craziness. ***It’s all here.*** All the pieces to the happy, healthy life I’ve always dreamt of. But all my stupid brain can do is frantically search for the defect. Someday, I’ll figure out how to relax, and forget about everything I was raised to believe was normal. I’ll stop expecting it to … implode into the chaos that’s supposed to be my life.

I’ll retrain my brain.

<—————————————————>

This is what a bad start in life can do to a human being. This is what domestic violence and substance abuse can do to a child who was stuck in the middle of it, who has a hard time claiming they were ‘abused’ because of how conditioned they were to never think that. This is how PTSD can affect an adult, even when they’re in a healthy and loving environment. The damage is there, it’s identifiable, observable. . . It’s sad that people are told on the daily, “just get over it.” Well, personally… I can’t.

I can feel it happening, and there’s just nothing I can do.

Anxiety. Irrational fear. Depression.

This is who I am, the person I have been carved into. I wonder how this will shape the rest of my life in comparison to how it’s been shaped up until now. I wonder who I would have been had things in my childhood been different. I wonder how different things would be for my kids… and how they see me. All I can do is try to control myself, try to be rational, never, ever, shut down or give up… Never walk away. And hope I don’t screw them up… too bad. All I can do is my best. I hope they know, I’m trying so hard.

I did not have it as bad as some, but it’s not a fucking contest. My life has moved on to a much better, happier place, and I’m thankful for that.

…but this is still, very much so, something I’m still going through, and has played a major role in my life and majorly affects my husband’s and my children’s lives. I don’t talk about it a lot… but I’m tired of feeling like I shouldn’t ever talk about it, that people having it worse negates what I’ve been through. That’s just not ok. This isn’t something anybody should be ashamed of. This is something we should be able to help each other with……. through.

Someday, my dirty little secret won’t haunt me.

Someday, it will just be my past.

#MentalHealth
#DomesticViolence
#SubstanceAbuse
#ChildAbuse
#DrowningInMyMind

The ‘idea’ of her life…

This one… I’ve been pushing down. Deep down, where all the other feelings I don’t want to feel are forced to go until I can admit I need to deal with them… But.. today is her birthday. It’s always hard on her birthday.

I will always push this one down. It carries weight, so it sinks. It pulls down hard, like extra gravity. I can just push it away if I push hard enough. I have to repeat the words, “I don’t hate her.” Maybe I’m not convinced.

My heart breaks a little bit more every day, knowing she’s waiting for me to talk to her, and to say I’m sorry for abandoning her. And I feel like an asshole for making her wait. I have children. I can imagine what it would feel like if all 3 stopped speaking to me. I don’t want to think about it.

She will wait forever for that to happen. As badly as I want to pick up the phone, and know firsthand how she is, how life is going for her, hear her voice, and tell her about my kids… she is the one who owes an apology.

And no, not necessarily to me, if that’s what you thought I was implying. No, I think it would be much more… appropriate… to apologize to herself, and the very idea of her life.

It’s hard to explain that one. “The idea of her life…”

I guess what I mean is… I feel like she should apologize to the person she let go of, herself, before all this shit happened.. the person she could have been if she hadn’t given up.

I miss my mother. I feel her at all times, like the heat from a fire I can’t see. I’m far enough away to not get burned, but I’m still close enough to feel how dangerous it is to get any closer.

I miss singing with her, hearing her sing those weird old 70’s and 80’s songs she loved so much… Linda Ronstadt and mariachi music on Sundays while we cleaned the house… even though that hadn’t happened since I was young.

I can see her face in my mind, like a reflection, it’s crystal clear. Her dark eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones… I always thought she was so beautiful. I still do. But.. it’s starting to get blurry. It takes a lot to get there in my mind…

I can hear her voice echoing around in my own voice.

It’s haunting me.

She is haunting me, and she’s not even dead.

I want to dispose of every feeling it makes me feel. I want to turn it off like a light switch… like a power grid… like a nuclear reactor… I want to feel the rush of relief pour over me like scalding hot water when she is finally out of my mind.

But it won’t ever happen.

 

If I pick up the phone, it will only make it hurt more. It will all float to the top, and I will have to see it and remember… and feel… and scramble and fight my through it like an iced over lake of emotional suffocation.

There could be no good to come out of something like that… I might let her back in. I might try to trust her. I know that isn’t smart. She will drink, even if she promises not to…. And then she will lie, she will steal, and cheat, and deceive, and hurt… and hurt… and hurt… and I’ll kick myself for opening that door again. I’ll blame myself for the damage done to myself and my kids.

I am too far gone to go through all of that all over again. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less to keep pushing it down. There will always be a deeply set hook connecting me to it. All it needs is a tug….. and up it floats.

People have told me I NEED to call. I need to talk to her. That I will regret it if I don’t reconnect before she dies…

 

But I won’t do it, or feel I can even explain it to someone who’s on the outside.

You don’t understand.

You assume too much if you think it wasn’t so bad…

I can’t blame her for my flaws, or my own shortcomings. I can’t blame her for the mistakes I’ve made on my own. But I do blame her for the nightmares. I do blame her for giving up on herself, and.. me.

I can blame her if I want to.

And you can go ahead and judge me for it.

The crumbled remains of our relationship have made it hard for me to open up and let in other family members. I cower, and hide. I feel paralyzed. I feel so much guilt for backing away from my whole family, just to keep her away.

 

Just to push it down. Deeper… deeper…

 

I love you mom. Happy Birthday.

God Isn’t Fixing This

God isn’t fixing this. And why would he? If you believe in god, don’t you think he would expect the people of Earth to pull their heads out of their asses and take care of this mess ourselves?!? Don’t you think he’d be a little apprehensive to jump out of his big ol’ god chair to help considering the fact that we created this problem? We cling to our “right” to have this problem. We walk around shopping malls with our guns, we go to chick-fil-a with semi-automatic weapons, we continue to lie to ourselves and insist this is normal, a given right in our country, and then we cry about the school shootings, and mass killings…. We change our facebook pictures, and we get tattoos, and we pray. We pray. We pray. We pray. We are praying. Sending prayers. Prayer chains, prayer trains, prayer planes… Sending it up. Up to the big guy. The big guy who, if he’s up there, is really, probably, only severely disappointed in everything we do because we are stupid. We are selfish. This is all just so stupid. We feel justified to carry whatever weapons we want, because back in the day, people were few and far between, and food was scarce, wars and shit, and cop cars weren’t invented yet, so the big law guys were all, “Ok, ok. You can shoot people if we’re not there yet. Take care of yourself, people are jerks for stealing, so have your gun, here, we’ll put it on this big piece of paper and say you can always have your gun in case you need to kick some ass… even our ass… but promise you won’t be a dick.” Several things have changed since then. Several. I’m not going down that rabbit hole right now, but we all know… Shit. Has. Changed.

We shove the constitution down people’s throats to claim it’s our “right” to intimidate everyone around us with ridiculous compensators hanging from straps, and holsters…. We are a joke. To most of the rest of the world. We are pansies. We have the biggest military force in the world, and people are still saying that old pathetic STUPID crap about “they’re not gonna take my guns!!!” You fucking moron. They don’t want your shitty little tin shooter. They have drones. They have a-bombs. They have missiles that cross entire continents. They don’t give a shit about your stupid fucking scrap metal boom stick. You do. You need it. You feel you can protect yourself the best with your big, scary, dangerous, generously given gun. You vote for people who hate regulations, so that you can have your toy. Your toy that kills people. Innocent people. Every day.

Can’t we figure something else out? Look at smartphones. Pretty complex. I think humans are smarter than this, and this antiquated idea that the only way we can survive in America is if we’re “Locked and loaded.” That’s NRA bullshit. Can’t you get out of your own ass and agree that THIS ISN’T WORKING?? This, “We can keep all the guns we want in circulation, because if somebody breaks into our homes, or tries to take hostages at the chick-fil-a? I need to have a gun to combat that!! IT’S THE ONLY WAY.”

No. It isn’t. And that doesn’t even make any fucking sense.

You want to talk statistics? Oh please, inquire. But again, I’m not going down that rabbit hole here.

We don’t fight fire with fire. We fight fire with water, because it’s more effective, and less destructive.

I don’t know what the hell the answer is. But I do know we DON’T have it as of now, so whatever we are doing is fucking wrong, and we need to try something else. Why not?

Are human lives less important than gun rights?

Or are you and your fucking guns more important than… Everything?

Is having your own gun more important than a human life?

Has praying about the carnage done a damned thing?

 

If you didn’t answer “No” to those last 4 questions, you are part of the problem.

To you…

I’ve lost a lot of people in my life. And I don’t mean by death. Sometimes there comes a point in a relationship, or friendship, where you just don’t need the negativity in your life and you have to sever the tie. Even just this past year I’ve lost people. People who I thought I would always know. People I thought I was friends with in a past life, that I would be friends with in future lives…. Some were shocking, life shaking…. others were… Disappointing. Sometimes it’s my choice. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it makes sense, and sometimes it tears me apart trying to make sense of it. But the thing that matters the most to me, when I lose someone, is the memory they take of me, and the memory they share with others. Sometimes, people like to burn other people to the ground just so their own pain isn’t so strong. This is what haunts me.

Sometimes my words are like vomit. They make me sick until I get them out. And I’ve kept my fucking mouth shut tight. But I think I’ve lost the need for the higher ground. You are trashing my name, while blackening your own heart. I’ve lived many years of my life struggling to understand why people lie, bewildered by the ease of the lies that hurt so badly but slide right off the tongue like fresh blood…

Why do you want so badly to hurt me? Yes, you are hurting me. Every day this goes unresolved, every time you tell another person some shitty lie about me. I can’t defend myself against slander when I’m not given the chance. When I never even have the chance to know I’ve been knocked, I just see the names drop from my friend’s list, and I know… That was you. You are ruining my memory, and breaking my fucking heart. I know you can hear that inner voice, telling you to stop. Why won’t you stop? I didn’t do anything to deserve the way you’ve treated me, or the awful lies you’ve said about me. And it gnaws at me, not being able to just call you, and ask you why the fuck you are being such a bitch. I don’t think even you know. I hope it gnaws at you, that you’ve hurt someone, and lost them from your life, because of the person you are. This is what you do. It’s what you’ve done to many people. And my opinions of so many people have been forever tarnished because I trusted you. And now I don’t know what to think, or believe. I never would have dreamed you’d be able to weave the lies you spew, and still be able to sleep at night.

But I’m sure there’s a pill for that.

Sorry. I’m sure that stung.

But you’ve cut as deeply as you possibly could. And you’d deny it all in a heart beat. Now all I have left is a picture of your son, and an overwhelming hatred for an entire state.

And I’ve got to get through it. And get over it.

It would just be nice to stop worrying about what you are telling people behind my back.

Getting out of the hole

Being healthy is hard for everyone, no matter what *size* you are. We all struggle to eat good food and cut out sugar, salt, and white flour. Because that shit is everywhere! And, I don’t care what they claim, NOBODY likes kale. Nobody. But this is what life is, putting things in to improve the condition of the machine that is your body. Just like keeping clean oil in your car, your body requires maintenance. It requires extra money. Extra effort. It won’t just “run forever” if you don’t do SOMETHING, the RIGHT thing, to keep it going. And there are no good shortcuts. It never ends. There isn’t a timeframe, like if you eat healthy for five years, then you get to take five years off and eat whatthefuckever… This is life. Do the right things to make the best of it.

Like so many people, I have struggled with my weight most of my life. My mother never caught on to the whole “processed food is bad, mkay” campaign, which meant box mac’n’cheese and instant mashed potatoes were a staple at our table. I have spent far too much of my life overweight and insecure. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin. I have never found inner peace by “accepting myself for who I am and loving my body.” I don’t accept who I am, because I am depressed, but I can work on that. And I don’t love my body. Some days, I would totally go so far as to say I FUCKING hate my body. But I don’t *want* to hate my body. I want to love it, I just… Can’t. Not like this. Because I know I can do better. I can BE better. I can look in the mirror and be satisfied, because I will be doing my honest best, instead of just lying to myself and scraping by. Fuck all that “if you don’t love yourself now, it won’t matter what size you are, you never will.”

Bullshit.

I’m an awesome fucking person.

I love lots of things about myself. But not my fat ass. Or my jiggly fat belly. Or my flabby arms. Fuck no I don’t LOVE them. Psshhh… Please….

I love my brain. My opinions, my heart… NOT my love handles. And I have every right to not love them.

And so I’ve come to the realization, standing here on the edge of 30, peering down into the dark crater that is the rest of my life… I really need to change some things. For myself, and for my children, who will learn from what I do. I will be giving myself one year to make this very big life change. I think that’s a reasonable timeframe considering the amount of weight I want to lose, which is a whopping 70 pounds. My goal weight is 140. You do that math.

My 30th Birthday is July 20th, 2016. I’m shooting for then, but giving myself more time than that because I make the damned rules. The end date of this little game is set for September 10th, 2016.

I will be sharing my “weight loss journey” (can we PLEASE call it something else, I hate that phrase!) with you lovely people. And I am not going to ask you to buy some stupid ex-celebrity exercise dvd. Or subscribe to anything. Or to watch a video about how to buy some new miracle pill. What I will ask for (at times I may even beg) is your support. For those of your who have taken your own weight loss journey, you know all too well how easy it is to lose motivation, and how fast you sink back into “the hole.”

I… Need… You.

I’m going to need you to be my cheerleaders, my confidants, my coaches, my partners, and my competition. I know it’s a big job, but I said you have to, so there.

I will be sharing the exercise that I do, the food I eat, pictures of my progress, and the state of mind I’m at throughout the process. I am anticipating some really good comedy from all of this, so please, follow along, and poke fun of how miserable I’m going to be for the next year!!

#EatHealthyBitches
#YouAreWhatYouEat
#WhatAmIThinking?

#ShitNevermindHandMeThatBeer

#No…. #YouGotta. #ItsTime.

From Housewife to Husband: Things that fly through my mind and must be filtered to not be allowed to come out my mouth.

I love you too….

Thank you for throwing that cookie at me five times during this conversation. It’s helping. Tons.

And I know, you are a good man. You work hard, and you financially provide for your family, and give us an awesome life. You are obnoxiously smart, and I know you care deeply about me and our 3 children.

But I hate feeling like you think when you’re there, working out of town for five days of the week, that it’s a separate life. And to a degree, it is, but for you to act like there’s no point for you to connect the two at all… Like why would you need to talk to me about making plans and changes to the rest of your week…

Why? For starters, my stuff, and the kid’s stuff, is there too. The fish that won’t eat for a week. The plants that I’ve had for *going on* 4 years that you religiously forget to water (that can’t be moved down here yet) that will probably just end up dying in your care…. The air mattress for me to sleep on, you could have grabbed it to bring down here…. etc. All of that could have been talked about, had I known you were leaving it all for a week. You didn’t “need to run that by me for it to be OK” but it ***would have been nice to know, asshole.***

But you don’t see why there should be any overlap. That hurts my feelings. Like it’s “none of my business” what you are doing there, or wherever you are that’s not here, “it has nothing to do with me”. It feels a lot like when we were separated. And I hate that feeling. That’s not what’s happening here. You’re working out of town during the week, why does this feel… Like more than that?

I just want to scream at you. I’ve been walking around actually crying this morning, because I really do miss you, and you couldn’t carve out two minutes to send me a fucking text message about your changing plans? During your 30-40 minute drive home, plus another 20-30 minutes packing your car up to head 6 hours south of where you are now and the thought never crossed your mind to TELL YOUR WIFE until you were already well out of town? You were that busy? Probably not, but I guess that’s how far down the list talking to me is.

But yeah, me and my vagina are just being emotional and stupid, I should be thankful you called at all. Some wives hardly get as much as that, so I should just not feel like this.

Ok sugarcakes. I’ll work on it. Have fun. All I ask, is that you please not do shitty things behind my back that if I find out about it will hurt me or the kids. You are gonna go do whatever, I’m not gonna know, and I either except it or…? So I guess I’ll just sit here like a good little woman and shut my mouth and just nod and smile for you, and finish the fucking laundry. I’ll get to work on our next week of meals, caring for our 3 kids by myself (school starts tomorrow), and just generally stick to things that actually concern me. Thanks, Lance Romance.

That’s a shitty feeling. And your response will be? “I’m not trying to make you feel that way.” Of course you’re not. This is all just twisted silliness created by my stupid little lady brain. I know. Ugh.

Select all……

Delete……

*twiddle thumbs, exhale*

I love you too. Drive safely.

Video Games: Press Start to Get Addicted and Ruin Every Relationship You Have

Video games.

The scourge, the blight, the bane, the plague, the curse, the thorn in your side that is responsible for so many divorces, disownings and even a few emancipations, has crept its way into popular culture over the last three decades or so and is really starting to take a toll in urban and rural areas alike. The world is starting to shift in a direction that, frankly, scares the hell out of me. I’m not here to talk about the violence or about the sexism. We all know that shit’s in there, but those are topics for another day. I’m talking about the fact that video games are an addiction which cripples 1 out of 7 relationships. Ok, so I made that number up, completely. But seriously, I have watched so many couples wither away into divorce or separation just because Fable III had just come out. Halo… Call of Duty… whatever the strain, it’s all pretty potent, destructive, and just plain dangerous. Playing video games can cripple your emotional awareness, which can lead to a catastrophic ending to a perfectly wonderful relationship; it virtually guarantees it.

For a person my age (we’ll say 25?) it all starts fairly innocently, usually around the age of 8, with something like Mario Bros World or Tetris. You play for long periods of time, you don’t go outside as much, but alas, your parents think it’s benign and, if anything, it will enhance your mental abilities. That slowly rolls into a rendezvous with Crash Bandicoot, and before you know it you’re playstaytioning amidst a web of controller cords, spiraling deeper into Final Fantasy and Tomb Raider long after mom and dad have said “lights out, controllers down”… Then one day, along comes the Mighty-Mighty Xbox, wireless controllers and all, and you fall into a pit of Oblivion, Grand Theft Auto, Assassin’s Creed, and whatever else you can get your hands on. Your parents beg you to stop, but… you just can’t. You hear their pleas; they’re only standing 5 feet away, but you are way too busy completing this mission to deal with their ridiculous demand to “please use the bathroom to relieve yourself instead of just going on the rug”. You become one with the floor in the middle of the room where you have lost feeling in your legs from sitting Indian-style in a pile of your own defecation for days. It’s a tragic tale. So many people have lost themselves down this path at a young age, never to be seen or heard from again, long before they even have the good fortune of reaching adolescence.

The most horrific stage in the process of becoming a full blown video game addict is when you finally move out on your own, and you stop eating anything that resembles food, hole up in your house for DAYS on end, lose jobs over not wanting to walk away from WOW, and start gaining weight. Lots. Of. Weight. Your body mechanics begin to suffer. The arch of the backbone of a video game addict begins to resemble that of a person suffering from scoliosis. Your skinnier-than-chicken legs don’t like holding you up for more than 3 minutes, and your neck bones have started to fuse together. The only thing you can stomach to drink is Mountain Dew Code Red. True addicts know that at this point things can go one of two ways…

  1. You realize that you’ve just entered the ninth circle of hell and you are doomed if you continue, so you scramble for a way out… or…
  2. You reheat those pizza rolls from yesterday that sat on the coffee table where the dog’s tail probably dragged across them, sit back down into your couch depression and hit “X”.

If you choose path #1, you may have a chance for a normal life. The first step is admitting there is a problem. We’ve all heard it, but an addict needs to accept it for there to be any chance of recovery.

If you choose path #2… don’t be surprised if your “equipment” falls off and crawls away to try to reattach itself to someone who doesn’t burst into flames in sunlight, and maybe, just maybe, your bloodline will go on.

Path #1 person has a fair chance to be a productive member of society. There’s no telling if they’ll make it. There’s no saying they won’t fall back into the trap… But they have a chance. They probably read books, they may even take walks. They feel sunshine and breathe non-air-conditioned-air at least twice a month. They know what clouds and trees look like in real life.

Path #2 person is more than likely going to end up moving back in with their parents several times before just being given a house (those rich brats), or at least their own door off the basement so their poor parents might have at least a few years rid of the sight of a Resident-Evil-4-hangover-zombie-man-baby before they die.

Either path has the chance for relationships. For an addict, the main priority is and will always be games above all else, so nothing in the addict’s life will last, aside from video games. But I’ve seen it happen, I’ve seen addicts nab some pretty awesome people, even with their debilitating crutch. From there, the variables are endless… but one thing is certain… if either path leads to marriage… in order for a marriage to last, and in order to have a life with that person, maybe have a family…. at some point the controller will have to be put down. The system will, dare I say it, sometimes have to be turned off. The microwave will no longer be the sole appliance used to sustain life in the household.  No. More. Code. Red. In order to regain a normal life, the addict may have to endure countless hours of Pause Therapy. But for any of that to even start, there must be a shift toward adulthood — free from the addictive burden of video games — in order for a relationship with another human to develop and last for any length of time. But it won’t be easy… most recovering addicts will tell you themselves, to conquer this fantastic obsession, it takes inner strength equal to that of a liger. (They are bigger than both lions and tigers!!!!)

In all seriousness, this epidemic is out of control… It won’t be long until it exists in every nook and cranny on this planet. It is thriving, and spreading… and I really don’t know if we can escape its clutches. Maybe we just need to let it run its course for the next 200-300 years. .Hopefully some of us will come out of this OK on the other side and look back at our species’ fascination that nearly led to our demise — highly addictive, extremely destructive, life retarding, emotionally stunting video games — and learn something from it.

Good luck humanity.

-Awkward-

*Subtle Assist Cred  -Asshole-

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** If we’re still waiting on you to catch up… give yourself a pat on the back, and a gold star sticker for being a winner!!! This is satire. Calm down.**

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The Thinner, The Winner

It all started when I was in high school. I was not, in any way, one of the popular kids. I could have just exercised. I could have eaten better. I could have done about a thousand things differently, I suppose. But I was a kid, and in all honesty, (because we’re among friends, right?) I was immature, irresponsible, and unhealthy. Annnnnd corndogs are the shit.

I took the word of my mother, who said that the bright pink XXL mickey mouse t-shirt looked great on me, and hid all that pesky chub, so “nobody would even notice! Mickey’s cool!! Huge t-shirts make you look skinny!!” I didn’t wear makeup. I didn’t wear hip-hugger jeans. I didn’t dye my hair. I didn’t understand how to relate to people my own age. I had very few friends. I didn’t EVER have a boyfriend either. By the time I was 16, I was throttling my turn to drugs and alcohol to celebrate my self-pity party of fat girl problems.

People have REAL problems in this world. Children die of cancer every. damned. second. Wives are losing husbands, kids losing moms… Animals are going extinct. The world is dying…. but in the moment, up my own ass and ignorant of everything around me, I felt like it was the biggest hardship a woman like myself could face. Being overweight is constantly assumed a choice, and people always think terrible things like, “how did they let themselves get that big?” Sometimes it’s not a choice. It’s not something you wake up one morning and decide, “Hey, you know what, I don’t really give a fuck, I’ll just be 300 lbs, cuz… cheesecake.” I’ll admit, sometimes that might actually be the case. Sometimes it’s just bad luck. Bad genes. Bad choices… I truly believed it was a curse that I would probably never escape. My mom was overweight, it was all her fault! There was no chance in hell I would EVER be thin. And my momma LOVED to cook. All kinds of comfort food in our house. She was all about potatoes. We ate potatoes every fucking meal of the day. Ughhhh the STARCH!!

Then came all the talk about Bulimia and Anorexia. I had no idea what those things were until I was smack dab in the middle of my own teen aged hell. There was tons of awareness… big posters, commercials, ad campaigns…

*It can kill you!*

*You could have a heart attack!!*

*It’ll make your hair turn grey!!*

****REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES****

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.
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Oh, go fuck yourself.

If you think it’s perfectly awesome to be fat, let’s trade!! You take the fat, I’ll take those skinny jeans.

Yeah, didn’t think so.

So one day, after a perfectly legitimate lunch comprised of a tomato sandwich and french fries from the kitchen of the restaurant I worked at (potatoes, potatoes, POTATOES!!!!), I was on the verge of tears, sitting in the bathroom by myself it hit me. If I throw it all up, it’s like I never ate it, but I’ll still have gotten to enjoy eating it. So I did it. I stuck my finger down my throat, and tossed it up. It wasn’t difficult. It’s really the easiest thing in the world, like pressing a button that says, “Skinnier, please!”

I went back and forth with it for a while. It wasn’t really working, and that was really discouraging. I couldn’t even be bulimic right. So I stopped altogether sometime right before I finished high school. I tried eating more healthy foods, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. And my mother wasn’t exactly supportive… she wasn’t… un-supportive… but when somebody constantly asks you if you’d like another baked potato, or some box mac’n’cheese, with that “mom smile”, it’s not exactly encouraging that healthy diet you are trying to stay on. Plus, like most 16-18 year olds, I lived at home. If i didn’t want to buy it and prepare it myself, I ate what was cooked for me. I could have been more proactive, absolutely. I paid my own car insurance, gas, etc., I had a job that paid $7.25 an hour, so I could have done some things with that. But what teenager do YOU know that’s going to take on extra responsibility all by themselves with no promise of a reward?? And of course this was in the days of “Put these drops on your tongue and you’ll lose weight!!” It was crack. And crap. A lot of synthetic tree.. bean… oil… stuff that was supposed to be MIRACULOUS at helping to lose weight. My mom was ALLLLLL about those drops. They were supposed to suppress your appetite… which sounds SUPER healthy too. “This chemical makes you not want to eat!! FAAAAABULOUS!!”

A few months went by and back into my life came the corndogs, the potatoes, the cheeeeesecake! The deep fried chicken patty sandwiches. Wendy’s. Taco Bell. OLIVE GARDEN… You get the picture, right? I ate vegetables, SURE!! Canned green beans SMOTHERED in butter, canned fruit DRIPPING in sugar syrup, maraschino cherries… that’s a fruit, right? Right.. Then I had my son. I was so incredibly picky about what he ate. I rarely gave him processed foods, no frozen chicken nuggets for my boy, only organic, pan toasted, lightly floured chicken breasts with little to no salt, steamed veggies, fresh fruits, healthy amounts of dairy, nuts, legumes… I was kind of an asshole about it. But as far as my diet went? I ate what I wanted to eat. I ate crap.

Then I got sick, and I just couldn’t kick it. I went to a couple of doctors, they really didn’t tell me shit. Couldn’t figure out what it was. They all said relatively the same thing, “Drink more water, get more exercise, sleep more…” That. Did. NOTHING. I kept throwing up. Every morning it would start, and it would go on all day. I missed work, appointments… housework came to
a complete halt. And then I realized what was also happening… I was losing weight! For the first time in my life, I dropped 10 lbs… then 20, 30… then 40…. I was the incredible shrinking woman, and I was on a roll. I didn’t want to get better, I wanted to stay sick. So that’s exactly what I did. A few weeks turned into a few months… People I had known for years were asking me if I was “Ok”… did I have cancer? Damn I looked good, new diet? Nope. Just barfing it all up!! Of
course I NEVER said that, but that’s the truth. I would binge eat allthethings, then toss it, and the weight just kept peeling off. Sometimes I felt tired, but I was actually amazed at how easy it was. It just… worked. I bought and fit into a size 6 jeans. That, to me, was monumental. I posted it to my facebook page. I was proud of myself… for being bulimic.

After dropping almost 50 lbs, I made a deal with myself to slowly stop all this nonsense. I told myself I would NEVER let myself get that big again, and I would only ever eat healthy foods so I could keep this new skinny body I wore (that felt like an alien skin to me). But, that’s not what happened. I put all the weight right back on. I spent a year barfing my brains out, in secret, only to ruin it all with more junk food. My habits never changed, why did I think anything would be
different once I stopped?

I accepted the fact that I would not be skinny unless I pursued the bulimic life, but I didn’t want that life, I left it behind me. It was dangerous. It was stupid. Did I really care that much about being skinny that I would risk my life?! I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t lie to myself, and everybody else. And I didn’t want anybody to find out, lest they send me to some funky fucking rehab I couldn’t afford or care less about… And there was a man. I loved him. He was my friend, and I wanted it to be real, no lies. So I got a little fat again. Oh well, I was fat, but I was happy.

So the years have gone by, and I have not purged with the intent to lose weight since then. I think about it though, I always talk myself out of it but, I think about it. Maybe I could just eat healthier, or exercise more… yeah yeah yeah… So there’s no fluffy ending here. The only fluffiness is my muffin top. I’ll rock it. I eat actual vegetables now, but I still weight more than the average bear. I just don’t care anymore. I’ve had three kids, give me a fucking break, I am NO Heidi Klum… that bitch. I’d love to fit into those skinny size 6 jeans again, they are still hanging in my closet… but… fuck it. There’s cheesecake.

Any Minute Now…

I used to sing. No, scratch that, I used to LOVE to sing…

I remember when I was little, like 4 or 5, I would make up my own songs and walk around singing them EVERYWHERE, much to the annoyance of my mother who, for years, told me to shut the hell up. I totally understand though, I was probably obnoxious as hell, singing about… walking. Singing about school, and grocery stores. Shoes. Macaroni. Dinosaurs. It was probably cute the first 40 times, and then after that…. Well, after that I probably should have shut the hell up.

But, you guessed it… I didn’t. My aunt even has some video of it… somewhere, luckily not on the internet. I loved singing to the radio in the car. I can belt out a mean Trisha Yearwood, or Celine Dion, Christina Aguilera, even throw in some Bad Company, Credence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin, Etta James, Bonnie Raitt, Eric Clapton, Leann Rimes, Led Zeppelin, TLC… I never really cared what genre of music it was. I was always very open minded about music. I could sing a song beginning to end after hearing it only a couple of times. And every friend I ever had, I tried to start a “band” with. It wasn’t always my idea, but I went with it 100% of the time. There was never once a single instrument involved. We’d work really hard on the name of whatever group, and then never write any music, just expect to be allowed to cover hits… I guess? I really don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I would have literally DIED to go on Star Search, or American Idol. I even filled out the paperwork once, but I never went to the auditions. We lived in a small town in southwestern Colorado… I would have had to drive a minimum of 8 hours… no matter which direction I went…. over rough mountain passes, to make it to an audition. That was not going to happen with my $7.25 an hour video store paychecks. So I just kind of let that dream die.

Then, when the booze came and made me think I was cool, I started really getting into playing guitar. It didn’t last very long, and it was probably only brought on by years of teenage angst, depression from my home situation.. blah blah blah… uhhh I think, honestly, it was a little about guys, and doing everything I could to not just be the “fat girl”. At least if you play guitar, there’s SOMETHING else to describe you with. Oh yeah,… it may have also had to do with some low self esteem… that may or may not still linger around here somewhere…….

But I kept my dream alive, in my head, in my living room, on my guitar, in notebooks I am still finding to this day, Like a notebook specifically purchased to write songs in, that had maybe 4 pages written on, some of it illegible, a lot of it just… terrible. That is always awesome, being embarrassed of something you don’t even remember writing, because at 14 you REALLY know love. And how to write a love song… baahhhahaha! And I honestly used to think that eventually I would somehow sing for a living. I entered contests, made a cd… yeah, I put like $400 into my “career”, and hoped for the best. I reached out to local musicians, played venues like the VFW, and the American Legion…. I was truly living the rock and roll dream. Opening for Eric Diamond and his Honky Tonk Band. But I could have totally, at the drop of a hat, AT ANY MOMENT…. Just receive a call from SOMEBODY… and be gone on tour and become a full blown rock star… Any minute now!! That’s really what I kept telling myself. Seriously. Yeah, I know…

I was a “Featured Artist” on several of my friend’s rap songs. YES. Rap. And one spoken word/rap. No, I was not into rap even slightly, ever…  but I thought, “this is exposure, this will get your voice out there! This will be the catalyst!! Yes, this one! This is going to do it!!”  which over the years morphed into, “ahhhhhh, alright… but I’m going to need another shot first.”  It’s on the internet now, for everyone to hear. And it’s embarrassing…. And no, I am not going to share it. Just…..No. Because I wasn’t… and am currently… not. that. good. And you have to be REALLY GOOD… like Adele good, to get anywhere. I love singing to Adele. But I am NO Adele. Yes, it bums me out. Yes, I wish I looked like Taylor Swift, because I would CRUSH Taylor Swift if I looked like…. her…. dammit. And that’s the struggle. It’s super real. But I got to the point where I just couldn’t help but laugh at myself, and cringe a little. I would just hope nobody could hear me.. and I had reaaaaaaaally bad stage fright. If you can’t stop shaking when you’re up there, your voice doesn’t exactly… do…. what it can do. Booze only helped so much, and probably hurt more than it helped… So that happened.

Unfortunately, and obviously, I never became a rock star. I had kids, I moved, I spent my money on food and diapers. Then some random shit happened. Then some other shit happened. I guess I wasn’t as devoted as I thought to getting my career up and running and being all famous and arrogant and entitled, and most of all… rich. Bummer. I could use about a million right about now. Couldn’t we all? And I would really love to meet people like Bill Murray, and Jennifer Lawrence. But… I probably won’t. What a buzzkill!

I do still think about it. And I still sing. In the kitchen, and of course in the shower, in the car… Whenever nobody can hear me.  And I still, very quietly in the back of my mind, tell myself… “Any minute now…….”

Techno Toilet

To ALL Auto Flushing Toilets:

I understand you are a wonderful invention by a very creative and thoughtful, health conscientious human, with a lovely, brilliant mind that came up with a helluva million dollar idea.

And you have come in handy so many times in my life and in the lives of others, all over the world in all walks of life. During difficult times, like in a packed subway station where the germs walk and talk, or simpler times like at the bar, when you can’t stand up let alone find the handle to flush and, let’s be honest, who knows who’s puked where in those places… ?

You have made it easier on so many people; mom’s who have their hands full with one babe while another goes. You’ve made life easier for elderly people who had a hard enough time seeing if this was the men’s/ladies room to begin with, and can’t figure out this stupid friggin futuristic bathroom with it’s stupid motion activated hand soap pumps, and motion activated faucets (yeah, 4 seconds of water is plenty, thanks) and motion activated hand dryers and motion activated paper towel dispensers (4 inches of slightly absorbent paper will totally dry two dripping wet hands, thumbs up, five stars!!), cursing and huffing in and out of whichever one they made it into. It’s one less thing to figure out; it does the work for them. They stand up, it flushes. It’s simple. It’s genius.

But today… You didn’t help me. You didn’t make things easier at all. My 3 year old cannot hold her tiny little body on that 2 foot off the ground toilet with the seat that has a huge gap in the middle for what I can only assume is for women with wieners (now, I fully support our LGBT’s, and this has nothing to do with anything like that, so calm down, and keep reading), so of course, I had to stand there holding her, and because I moved my hands you flushed as she sat there, at a well used public bathroom… Three. Fucking. Times. Why?? Why did you think it was Ok to flush 3 times in a twelve second period? WHY? And why is there not some big red ‘DISENGAGE’ or ‘MANUAL’ button!?! WHY!?! The water splashed all over her and all over me. GOOD GOD I thought we were at Niagara Falls taking in the mist! Then, as if because of the sheer terror from what had just happened, she couldn’t even go!! And now my sweet little girl probably has chlamydia, because of your technologically advanced BULLSHIT.

Fuck you, auto flushing toilets.

Fuck you straight to the deepest pits of hell.