fearlessfailure-blog

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Night Terrors and the Easter Cockroach

I realized last night after approximately 3 years that my Small (read youngest child) is having night terrors.  She wakes up walks into the living room, she doesn’t say anything. I either pick her up or I hold her hand and walk her back to bed where she willingly climbs in, then she proceeds to freak out. She either stares at a corner of the room, eyes dilated with an expression of fear and dismay or she rubs her face and cries and sometimes reaches for something above her.  I try to console her but it’s like she can’t hear me. Well, that’s because she can’t hear me, she’s still asleep. What…the…hell.  You should have heard me trying to explain it to El Hubbo only for him to try and turn it around on me and something I am doing wrong.  Although he is her parent too I’m the only one who is actually taking care of them, therefore anything “wrong” with the kids is my fault by default. It annoys the shit out of me.  It’s like sandpaper across a sunburn and what I want to do most is yell in his face that he sucks so much and he never listens and he always has to blame something. And while that is all true I managed not to yell at him, I did tell him he doesn’t listen to me. He said I interrupted him…it was actually the opposite.  Then he  pouts because I don’t back the fuck down.  I get tired of talking in circles because I don’t feel heard. And maybe this is the thing I dislike most about being married.  I cut my teeth on not being heard.  And I am here (hear lol) to say no more.  I’m sure there’s a balance to be struck somewhere between being heard and listening, but I don’t have that set of scales just yet. 

I put off emptying the dishwasher from yesterday because of Easter. I was tired of emptying the dishwasher.  So I go to empty it today only to find a friend.  Legs up and slightly curled lying in the bottom of the dishwasher.  Unpleasant, but a simple enough fix. I grabbed a paper towel and prepared to move him to his final resting place.  I move in for the grasp…SURPRISE! The roach lives. Why was it playing dead in my dishwasher? Do cockroaches sleep on their backs? Was this the Jesus cockroach resurrecting itself on the 3rd day???  If so, the cockroach version of the resurrection story has an alternate ending.  After chasing cockroach Jesus for 7.45837905 minutes while cursing my short arms and fat ass wielding a butter knife he finally made a break for the freedom.  I smushed him. Pretty sure that’s not how the bible story goes. 

Note: we do not have an infestation of cockroaches, Cockroach Jesus was an anomaly.  I see approximately one roach per year. Either that or we DO have an infestation of cockroaches and they’re just really good at hiding.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Going through dead peoples stuff is a weird combination of intriguing and confusing.  I can’t very well go ask…hey what even is this? Or who is this? My dad died 6 years ago from leukemia. Well, more like the cardiovascular accident caused by his leukemia but same same.  He was an engineer, not like electrical engineer, he drove trains for a living. So I’ve just looked through a photo album of nothing but trains. Trains peppered with people I don’t know and only a handful of pictures of my dad circa 1979 according to the back of one photo.  I believe it.  I dig those bell bottoms.  I also found newspaper articles about train wrecks.  I read a whole article about a woman who was announcing she was a witch before I turned the clipping over and found a photo of a train wreck. I was super confused about why my dad was interesting in this woman being a witch. It didn’t help that the witch article was circled in blue ink…?  Must have been a slow news day in 1972. 

Dad didn’t expect to die.  I’d say do any of us, but I expect it.  I am fully aware that someday I’m going to kick the proverbial bucket.  He was only 64 and the cancer hit fast he was dead in less than a year after diagnosis.  So his house was just as he’d left it basically.  Rifling through his things gave me a new perspective on my stuff.   I often wonder what my kids will think when they find some bit of poetry or a photo of an ex. Or some bizarre memento that has no clear meaning to them. I’ve been trying to clean out. It’s slow going especially when you add Dad’s stuff onto mine and he had a lot of my grandparents stuff.  So you can see how this is snowballing on me.  I don’t know what to do with a lot of this train memorabilia.  I’m sure somewhere out there are people who are into this, people who are looking for pictures of a certain train from the 70s. Isn’t everyone looking for something?

It makes it harder going through his stuff because he was kind of a dick in life, at least to me and mine. In general he was well-liked which I find confusing.  I guess for him it was easier to connect with someone he wasn’t related to. For me personally, I want to give my best to my family and my one close friend. But obviously it was painful for him, which led to our relationship being painful for me because I felt rejected by him. (A lot of the people at his funeral didn’t know he had a daughter so maybe that feeling was valid) I think me being hesitant to throw some of his crap away is my last ditch effort to be good enough for him.  Jokes on me huh

[fearlessfailure-blog]

The thing about this writing challenge is that I feel today’s post HAS to be better than yesterday’s post. It adds another muscle to that invisible anaconda I call my life.  I can feel it squeezing me, squish squeeze squuuuish.  As with so many things I do lately, I find myself wondering why tf I’m doing it.  One of those lovely voices in my head thinks that I could write the word shit 500 times and it would be just as good.  Fuck you voice.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and that’s cool…right? I mean, that’s what they tell us.  Not everyone has to like you, you only have to like yourself. But we all know we want people to like us.  I even find myself wanting people I actively dislike to like me just so my disliking them will have an impact. Yeah, I’m that person I guess. Writing these things I try to be honest but the simple fact that this is for public consumption influences what I write. 

Does anyone want to hear about my internal tirade at the specialist yesterday and how after being left alone in the exam room too long I began to peek out of the mini-blinds at my car? Wondering how exactly I could get from where I was to my car with the least amount of questions. I calculated exactly how many bridges I’d burn with this particular physician. My chart would probably read “patient walked out in a tiff after not being able to produce a urine sample. Refer to psych” lol.  I mean, I could have done it.  I could have just gotten my things and left and maybe no one would even have noticed…? But if they had stopped me what would I even say? I’m sorry nice office lady but I have quirks.  One of them is having my time wasted. Two of them is I spend a lot of time convincing myself that I shouldn’t need to go to this doctor therefore if I am inconvenienced enough I’ll use that as an excuse not to be there. But in reality, I would have been awkward and embarrassed and not admitted any of those things.  I would have made up some bullshit about a family emergency and left.  And I would have berated myself as a failure on the way home, and in a few weeks when my meds ran out I would wonder why I acted so rashly.  And the answer would be, because you’re crazy bitch.  It’s what you do, you fuck things up. It’s what you’ve always done. It’s a miracle of the highest magnitude that I’m even still married this time around because I am difficult to love I think.  I have walls, I have walls inside those walls, and then inside those I have sandbags…probably. 

All right I’m peeking at the side of my screen and it says 30 words.  I dread reading back over this. There’s nothing worth reading here people, just keep walking.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

I wonder if there is a French word for screaming into the void. If there is, I should change my name to it. I had no intention of doing any of these challenges again but here I am, desperate. Grasping at straws in the darkness. Anything to ease the pain, even doing one of Kirk’s famous 500/30 challenges.  It saved me once, so maybe it will save me again. 

I am at once overwhelmed by the enormity of life and the futility of it all.  Everything is connected to everything else and anything I do has an effect other people. But also I am not in control of any of this and in the end nothing I do will matter. I am constantly surrounded by people (my family) yet I am constantly alone.  I think this is commonly referred to as a depression spiral.  For years I envisioned my depression as this dark figure that stalks me.  He stays mostly out of sight.  In that space just between your shoulder blades that you can’t quite see with your peripheral vison.  Darkness in the form of a man. I can feel him in my mind’s eye and yes I know that makes me sound fucking crazy.  He used to sit on my chest and make it hard to breathe until one day I said “go ahead and kill me then, I don’t give a fuck.” Now I just get plain ol panic attacks.   

I am 90 percent sure I should wake up tomorrow and pick a person to be my new therapist and get on it.  I am about 60 percent (I can’t find the right symbol in the dark) that I’m not going to do it. Not yet anyway. My therapist of 8 years stopping seeing patients as of last fall so since then, I’ve been on my own.  My abandonment issues took umbrage with these events.  Pesky little suckers.   

I am often shocked and surprised by what this disease comes up with.  The pure shit I will dish out to myself.  I’ve hesitated over this next sentence but let’s not mince words. I sound like my mother. AHH…someone hand me a tissue to staunch the blood. That hurt. As much as I am appalled, it’s the truth.  The things I say to myself in my head are the exact things I’ve heard her say my whole life. 

As a mother I want to stop talking for fear that my bullshit will embed in their brains.  I think it’s too late though.  My brain is currently adding that to my list of failures. I have decided to assign personalities to problematic thoughts.  I read online it’s helpful. So that suspicious, catty voice that tells me my husband doesn’t love me and is cheating on me is now Waluigi (from the Mario) with his pants legs pulled up into knickers and purple high heels that are too big for him.  It’s an effective tool, I can’t take anything that bitch says seriously.   

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Untitled

Just when you

think

you’re

safe

Another one

of you

shows your face

Maybe they

weren’t red flags...

but pink

and orange

and gold

But they all

add up to

a warning

One I should

not have

to be told

I learned

the moves

to this dance

long long ago

I’ll be damned

if I’ll move

my feet to your

beat and

let it all go

I’ve heard

how this song

ends

every version

arrangement

and style

You’re just like

all the others--it

just took

you awhile

So beware

your gut

those butterflies

they’ll protect you

from his lies

Even the ones he

tells himself

[fearlessfailure-blog]

That’s some #sixpenceee shit

[fearlessfailure-blog]

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Be Productive, Be Be Productive!

As I sit here in my pajamas, waiting on the dryer to dry the clothes that didn’t dry yesterday the theme song to OINTB is playing in my head.  Regina Spektor must have at some point had a phase of debilitating exhaustion because I feel she really knows what she’s talking about.  “Taking steps is easy, standing still is hard.” I feel this in my soul you guys because I’m sitting here at the kitchen table saving my spoons for my doctor’s appointment.  I’m essentially doing nothing but listening to my 4yrold whisper about farting and talking to myself.  I feel like I’m moving through sludge 24/7.  That is until I get in bed and my brain pops into some kind of manic state. 

Do we have to pee? We just peed.  But let’s pee again just in case.

Do we need a snack? I just had a snack an hour ago, but I can’t sleep without a snack, let’s get a snack and surf the web.

What’s up on FB, I’ve literally been on FB half the day but I have notifications.

Oh let’s meditate it will help with my anxiety.  Do I have to pee?

And so it goes on and on with sprinkles of worry and self-recrimination for various and sundry reasons throw in for flavor.  I’m so tired.  It’s hard to sit still.  I know if I get up and do things, I’ll use up what little energy I have. But it’s hard to sit with my thoughts. It’s hard to look at my life and at myself and just do nothing.  Doing things = value.  That’s what I hear in my head, “get up and make yourself useful” was a common phrase from my childhood.  Had I been taught that I have value just by being me, I may not be sitting here squirming learning a lesson late in my life.  It’s obviously an important lesson and crucial in the development of myself.  WHEN will my clothes be dry!

So here’s this thing I thought.  What if I always feel I have to be doing something because I’m afraid to hear what my inner voice is telling me? It seems to be telling me “you’re not doing what you’re supposed to be doing”.  I don’t think it means housework either.  There’s guilt behind that statement, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.  I know I don’t want to do what I’ve done for the x amount of years I been on this earth. Lately I’ve felt like clawing my face off and running around the room screaming.  Productive! So I’m uncomfortable that I can’t “do” the household things.  My house isn’t like an episode of hoarders or anything but there’s definitely a sense of casualness when it comes to cleaning.  Messy but not disgusting…mostly. 

Just writing this is exhausting me because I feel like my head is about to explode.   

[fearlessfailure-blog]

I am not whole My pieces are scattered around in the pockets of those I thought were capable of loving me

ZiXo // pieces (via fallenpoets)

[fearlessfailure-blog]

he was the sun and i was the moon.

we loved each other but we could never be together. (via uhnsaids)

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Embracing the D

Sometimes you just have to admit it.  Knuckle down, saddle up, give in give out and admit you’re fucking depressed.  I’ve fought it for days and I mean dayyyyyyssss.  But this morning I woke up and my first thought, as it often is, was Mornings fucking suck. I hate mornings. That’s when I realized I was without a doubt depressed. For whatever reason there’s comfort in admitting this fact.  Maybe because I am no longer denying my reality or maybe because I’m no longer fighting my own mind, I’m not sure.  Apparently (I say this because I’ve only read about it) there’s a saying in the armed forces “Embrace the suck”.  It means yea things are bad but just admit they are bad and go with it and get through it…I think. I have a fondness for this saying even though I never have been and never will be in the armed forces.  Mostly because I like the word suck.  It’s not a perv thing, it’s a generational thing.  When I was growing up that was one of the worst things you could say…this sucks.  I still say it. And what’s better is there are myriad and colorful combinations of sucking that just give pleasure to my creative mind.  Go suck a dick.  Go suck a donkey dick.  This sucks balls.  This sucks eggs (I don’t get that one but I’ve heard it).  Go suck a big one or this sucks a big one.  You suck the fun right out of me.  You suck the color out of my world.  You get the idea.  Suck for me is one of my favorites.  It’s not quite a curse word but not quite something you’d say in polite company.  Although I think it’s lost some of its stigma over the years.  (Stigma…stigmata...why have I have never looked up the correlation of these words? BRB It means mark of censure or infamy and St Paul basically reworked the word stigmata to have several meanings in this letter to the Galatians.  The more you know ((insert rainbow stars))) 

Ok that was quite a journey, back to the thoughts at hand.  I’m depressed.  It sucks (see what I did there?) But there it is.  I understand why I’m depressed.  For someone like me (and shit everyone for that matter idk) extended periods of pain or sickness often bring on an episode.  There are nuances to this situation though.  It’s a new chapter in my life as a woman whether I want to admit it or not.  My life has changed.  I also feel as though I am changing as a person.  I have felt this way for months (I’ll dive into that later). Then there’s the whole I can’t do the things I feel I need to do bullshit.  In a way I’m sure it’s good for my character to have to ask for help or to simply let something go undone, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  I need to take this opportunity to sit back and take a good look at myself and my life.  But that hurts, hence it’s even more depressing.  It’s also depressing to do the least little things and be exhausted for 3 days, that for sure suuuuucks, but here I am embracing it.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Obama, TMZ & Dinner

I just need to blow off a little steam I think.  It’s been a trying day.  I had my re-scheduled post op apt today.  I had Ashley drive me and when I got there my dr had to leave for an emergency c-section.  Long drive for nothing.  And I am sore from it.  Mom was here.  She’s a real joy.  She’s officially moved into old people territory.  She told me that Obama keeps making the doctor’s office call her because she needs to come in for bloodwork.  I tried to explain to her that it was NOT Obama making the doctor call her to schedule an appointment but, no dice.  It was for sure Obama.  She fell almost two weeks ago, she is still hurting from it.  You need to go get an xray I tell her. No, then I’ll have to tell them I fell and they’ll put it in my record.  What the hell are you talking about mom? I couldn’t help myself at that point.  They don’t keep track and penalize people because of how clumsy they are…yet.  Imagine me running around a room of oblivious people screaming at the top of my lungs and pulling my hair, because internally that’s what was going down.  She also shared with us that she enjoys watching TMZ today because they have interesting things on there.  This explains so much about my mother.  Between Dr. Oz, TMZ, the Discovery Channel and broadcast news she comes up with some pretty bizarre theories.  I’m also pretty sure they’re all geared to make me lose my shit. 

Then the hubs came home early to get his hair cut.  It takes him 40 minutes, 40 MINUTES to get his hair cut.  Keep in mind, his head is basically buzzed.  It’s like an eighth of an inch all over.  What the fuck is he doing for 40 minutes at a beauty shop? I’ll tell you what he’s doing.  Working his fucking jaw.  That man talks to women more than any man I’ve ever known.  Yak yak yak.  For all this talking to the female sex though he sure knows diddly-squat about us.  So remember as of tomorrow I am 3 weeks post op for my hysterectomy.  He went back to work a week after my surgery and I’ve pretty much just been here, looking around at the mess my house is being in pain...ya know chillin.  That is why I knew it took him 40 minutes to get his hair cut, because I needed him here.  In all fairness AFTER his 40 minute haircut I sent him to the store to pick up a few things.  But then he ruined that by coming home and making only himself something to eat before checking with myself or the kids on whether we’d also like him to fix us some food.  I totally gave him shit for it.  He deserved it.  It is not just about him anymore.  We are a family and when one of us (ME) is unable to do the things we normally do it’s his opportunity to step up.  Honestly, it annoyed the shit out of me.  I think it speaks to the selfishness that permeates how men are raised.  (disclaimer: prob some women out there like that as well) As a mother it is my “job” to make sure my offspring are fed, clothed, safe etc.  So as a father why does it not occur to him to make sure this is done? Especially when he already knew I was hurting and was not able to cook supper. 

Well I told you this was gonna be me venting about shit.  And it is.  Just waitin on bedtime!!!

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Hyster Rant pt2

Shit man.  I’m hurty today.  My right side is like a hot brick of jello that jiggles everytime I move.  I took a half a pain pill and just took 800mg motrin, so we’ll see if that helps.  I can get up and down better and wipe my ass better so there’s that.  I’m not sleeping well because I am not comfortable.  I have to sleep on my back and that sucks plus I wake up sweating sometimes and that’s no fun either.  The sense of doom and the feeling that something is “wrong” is starting to fade and that’s a plus plus plus plus.

What’s not a plus is my mom being crazy again…some more. You’d think with my own mental illness I would be more tolerant of her, but I don’t think the root of this problem is really about tolerance.  I do tolerate her, I do understand that sometimes (A LOT of times) she is not in control of her actions.  What I do not understand is her unwillingness to do anything about it.  Her penchant for playing the victim.  I get it, you’re a victim you didn’t ask for this, you didn’t ask for any of it, I know.  But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t somehow try to improve the shitty hand you’ve been dealt. 

The thing that burns me also is that if it were my aunt who had surgery (which she’s had multiple times) my mom would still be over there wiping her ass for her.  But since it’s me…she’s texting me complaining about her life and how she doesn’t understand how we’re not all sick…??? Idk what that means but I think she’s referring to the fact that we do things differently than she does.  She double wraps onions ya know.  The worse I feel the more she grates on my nerves.  I need to focus on getting better, on resting, on my kids, on my family.  Not on whatever crazy shit she’s come up with today to bitch about.  Part of her problem is that she can’t control the situation.  With every situation she tries to come in and take over and expects everything to go her way.  Anyone paying attention knows that’s not how life works.  There have actually been times when I think she wishes she could be my kid’s mom.  I remember when the hubs and I first started dating she would always hug him and not me, at all.  We are a big household, there a lot of people and a lot of sensitive personalities (gee wonder where we get that???).  I don’t even always manage it right, but she definitely can’t. UUUGH it’s always a double-edged sword. I feel guilty for bitching about her bitching.  See what I did there? I love her to pieces but there are times I just can’t handle it. I have to pull myself aside and say, ok is there anything you can do to help her? No.  Send her white light and go on.  But then there’s that other voice that’s all like…call her out on her stupidity bullshit.  She abuses everyone around her, someone needs to say something.  Then my other voice comes on and says no nooooooo what are you thinking Sally (my name’s not Sally, neither is my voice’s Idk where that came from but there it is)? A confrontation like that will get you no where.  She will swell up like a toad and get worse.  Just ignore her and go on.  You can’t save her from herself.  I can’t even support her on her mission to save herself because instead of saving herself she digs a hole, puts herself in it, then tries to pull you in it with her and cover you both up.  Fuck that.  I’m sure once she got me in there with her it would somehow be my fault too.  See what you did, you didn’t dig this hole right now we’re trapped in here and we’re gonna DIE!!!

I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror…I look like the crazy old crone that I am fast becoming.  My hair is sticking up everywhere and I am underwearless. 

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Spoons

The thing I want to do most right now is go to sleep. Followed closely by the pain in my hip to cease and desist.  I should be asleep. It’s 2am and I have wanted nothing more today than to go back to sleep.  I feel crappy.  I feel snappy. I feel used.  Today is a day that reminds me I am broken physically.  Today reminds me I am “disabled.” I feel guilty using that moniker.  But I only have so many spoons a day and today, I have fewer than normal.  I feel irate because I can’t do what I need to.  I feel resentful because I try to force myself to do the things I need to do. I took two halves of a norco today. That doesn’t sound like a lot and it probably isn’t. But it makes me feel like a failure.  Makes it real.  Makes me feel weak.  Crappy.  Right now I feel like an empty dorito bag.  One of the small ones. All the chips are gone and all that’s left inside are crumbs and orange dust and that dirty reflective lining.  Ok, make that cheese dust.  Thank you 45 for ruining words like orange…bastard.  I can either lay in bed crying with pain or I can take a pill and feel shitty and not cry.  Sometimes I cry anyway.  The pills make me weepy.  I’m weepy anyway. Insult to injury it feels like there’s a rock in my uterus. Sitting there, taunting me. I feel it waiting for me to lower my guard.  Oh I’m not bleeding right now, no need to put a tampon in.  It’s just waiting for me to fall asleep. I thought I wasn’t going to have the surgery to remove my uterus but after this cycle I am. I’ve been miserable and in pain. I hate being reminded of my weakness. It feels like there’s a giant pair of pliers attempting to pull my hip out of joint.  Or maybe I am some sort of chicken who’s being cut up into smaller pieces. I forget what that’s called. Where you take a whole chicken and separate all the pieces (dismemeber?) into those delicious parts we all know and love, thigh, breast, wing, leg.  I am a chicken.  Boiled to perfection falling off the bone ready to be consumed? Nah, I’m a raw chicken. Cut me up and fry me.  I hope I taste gamey and even the gravy is bad.  I want to scream screw life!!! Fuck you life and your shitty luck! I am an empty dorito bag being blown down a deserted street screaming into the night….fuck you fuck you fuck you.  Tomorrow I’ll have more spoons.  For sure.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Asshole Territory

Assholes are everywhere aren’t they? Everybody loves an asshole too don’t they? There is at least one person in your life that is considered an asshole and you feel compelled to love them.  But everyone LOVES an asshole too, as in we all willingly like these people.  Oh they’re so funny, I just love the way whats-his-face tells it like it is, he just gives his opinion he’s just so fucking great. Well he tells it like he is because he thinks he’s superior, he gives his opinion because men are taught their opinions matter more (even when they’re horribly wrong and misguided). Eye roll. Maybe it’s sexist (sorry, not sorry) but most of these assholes are men, too. 

Everyone loves an asshole.  Some women are assholes, but we know them as bitches.  Women get called bitches if they’re assholes right? I don’t make the rules, if so we’d have much more creative names.  Back to assholes.  I cut my teeth on assholes.  My dad was a huge asshole, his whole fucking life.  My grandpa, asshole.  My brother, asshole.  So I see a theme.  Do assholes run in families? Do people become assholes in self-defense? What’s the truth?

As children on the playground we were told oh he’s mean to you that’s because he likes you.  Hopefully, this practice has stopped by now, I’m not really on a playground much.  What does this do? It indoctrinates little girls to love assholes.  The message this sends is, hmm he treats me like shit he must love me.  So we grow up and we go out and we find the biggest asshole we can find and we fall in love with him. Over and over usually.  Ohhh, he doesn’t mean that shitty stuff he says. Ohhh, he’s under a lot of stress he didn’t mean to forget my (insert holiday).

Assholes talk down to other people, especially women.  They’re all-wise, all-knowing.  You silly little ladies and your women’s problems! Insert big belly laugh.  Assholes always know better than you about everything.  They are better than you at everything too.  Their problems are more important. Their work more important and influential. Their balls much bigger than yours. Do you catch my drift? Do you see where I’m going with this?

Some people think it takes strength to be an asshole, but that’s just something an asshole would tell you.  In reality they are assholes because it makes them feel better about themselves.  To put other people down elevates them in their little asshole minds.  The sad part about this…no one will call 90% of the assholes on their assholiness.  We giggle, Oh (insert douchy name) you’re so mean, giggle giggle.  Instead of squinting at them in disgust and telling them what they just said or did was full on asshole territory. 

It’s unfortunate that learning to recognize assholes takes us so long.  I want to shake some of these young girls and go no no no! Don’t fall for that bullshit, but I can’t, because they won’t listen, just like I wouldn’t listen.  Not that anybody ever told me, look out for assholes.  Maybe that should be a thing…look out for assholes kids.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

Omfg Eminem let the movie Sing use one of his songs.  I am delighted, yet shocked.  The freakin music in these kids movies anymore…I often find myself singing any of the Moana songs while showering.  Of course, my kid (4) wanders around singing them and they get in my head.  Then there’s the Troll movie, they used an effective rendition of True Colors.  I’m showing my age I think. I don’t care.  I’m fucking old but not as old as SOME people.  I know several people who are mentally old even though they are younger than me. I don’t wear makeup or futz around with my hair (except when I’m fucking it up) or accessorize but I look young for my age.  I admit when I see people I went to school with and they look geriatric I gloat a little.  I shoudn’t, but I do.  And I always think to myself “Drugs are bad mmmkay,” see I’m an ass.  I couldn’t sleep last night so I made a list of things that I felt were depressing me.  It was 2am, it’s not a very comprehensive list.  At the top of the list is no alone time, because all I want to do anymore is not mess with anyone and do some escapist shit where I can ignore my real life.  The house was on the list 3x because obviously I hate the house.  It was my husband’s place.  Tried to make it mine, nope can’t do it.  So I ignore it. Muy healthy.  I did have one profound thought yesterday so I’ll share it then go have another cup o’ coffee.  My therapist wrote me a note last time I saw her that said “Don’t talk shit about yourself” (HARD to not do btw) and told me to put it on my mirror and I said I’ll take a picture of it and set it as my background (I didn’t cuz I promptly lost it).  Because haven’t our phones turned into our mirrors? Personally I look in the mirror about 3x a day.  Twice when I brush my teeth and maybe once more just to see how I fucked up my hair (I colored it).  I look into my phone way more.  Our phones have become reflections of ourselves.  A reflection that is much easier to manipulate because we can control what people see of us.  We validate ourselves with our phones (ok not YOU guys, but people in general) using likes and snapchat and retweets.  It’s insidious. I honestly feel much better when I set my phone down and wander off without it.  But I can’t always do that.  I enjoy introspection but like I said earlier I often ignore shit.  Especially shit I feel I can’t do anything about like this house.  I can’t afford to move either with or without the hubs.  Not at this point at least.  The question then becomes if I could afford it, would I? It’s a question I torture myself with because somehow being a martyr for the people I love is something I do.  Picture me sitting here with a shit look on my face cuz I totally am.

[fearlessfailure-blog]

I wasn’t going to write tonight.  But I don’t think I can sleep with this anger rolling around in my chest.  I shared a story with my mom earlier, against my better judgement, but I thought I would reach out, see if any semblance of my mom came back.  My 4yrold got upset at bedtime because it was storming and she was worried about our dog Mattie, the one who died two months ago.  She was worried that Mattie was scared of the storm. I tried to reassure her that it was not storming where Mattie was and that Mattie was safe.  She then asked me if Mattie visited us. Yes, she visits us but we can’t see her.  But Mamma what if I die and I try to come back to visit you but can’t because I don’t know my way home. This with tears in her little eyes.  Ay, talk about breaking my heart.  I told her that I would die before her, when I’m very very old and when she is very much older. And that when she dies, I will be there waiting for her always.  This seemed to calm her. This is the story I shared with my mother. Her response was “Oh well I guess you all talk about it all the time. I really don’t know what goes on there.”  Mmmmm. Yes, yes you got me, we sit around talking about dying all day every day you stupid fucking bitch.  I did not say this out loud or even on text, I didn’t say anything.  She sent 7 more texts, none of which I responded to.  They were just her going on about how she needs to get rid of everything because it’s weighing her down and she’s not in good health.  I was shocked by my anger.  I usually don’t let it get that far.  I usually reel it in and the stupid shit she does hurts me rather than infuriates me.  But, damn I was so mad so fast. She’s made far worse comments to me. This one hit me wrong though and I could feel it rolling off me in waves of orange and red. I’m not comfortable feeling like that. It feels out of control.  It feels like she won some invisible argument. It reminded me that there have been many many times in my life where I have outright hated my mom.  A part of me is saying, this is wrong to feel. But a different part is saying You’re entitled to feel this way.  You have just reason.  I know patterns repeat themselves.  I hope my kids don’t feel this way about me at any point in their lives.  Chances are they will, there are 3 of them. I will do something stupid and they’ll hate me for it.  It’s like a rite of passage.  I am still fucking pissed. I can feel it sitting in my chest like a white hot rock.  And it whispers, your mother hates you just like she hates everyone else.  That, that is the fucked up part.  I didn’t even realize I could hear that whisper, but there it is.  Fucking hell do we ever stop learning about ourselves, about our relationships? I guess that’s the point of life.  We’re here to learn and those things that hurt, instruct.