2.37. In All Honesty

Spring is near…hell it’s Kansas so Spring may show up in August for all we know, but the overall symbolism of the season has set into full blast…kinda. Actually, it should be the opposite…the beginning of Winter. When life is ending, things die, everything is cold, quiet, and gloomy.

People say divorce is comparable to a death. And it is. The death of something you thought would last forever. Now, don’t have me mistaken with someone else; I chose to go through with my divorce…I asked for it. But I imagined it would be a rebirth. An opportunity for two miserable people to find their happiness again. What has manifested is a full blown war…a spiteful display of tyranny and a chaotic concert with nothing but hate blasting through the speakers.


I recently attended a class called FOCIS. Focus On Children In Separation. Sadly, that hasn’t been the case in the demise of my union. It has been an icy exchange. Something embedded with vengeance. Something VERY hard to deal with.

Before I go any further, let me make it very clear that I have no clue what I’m doing. That I’m making tons of mistakes. I am emotionally screwed right now. I have no idea how to have friendships, family ties, interactions with the adult species. The epitome of my understanding is with that of a three year old (my son) and even then…I get lost sometimes and just wish he would understand that I want to cry, to hide, to fade and not deal with the agony of breathing. But he will not understand my pain. He shouldn’t have to. He didn’t choose this. He sure as shit didn’t choose me.

During that FOCIS class, the instructor went over the 5 stages of grief, first really introduced by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying.”

  1. Denial and Isolation
  2. Anger
  3. Bargaining
  4. Depression/Guilt
  5. Acceptance

According to the instructor, the journey through these stages…on average…can be between 18 months and 4 years. 4 YEARS!!!! I slip into each one of these stages, depending on the day.

I have isolated myself despite playing the open book. I have walked away from friendships without so much as a tear. Because these people will leave sooner or later. It always happens. It always will happen. So fuck it. There is no use in holding on to people who will throw me away like garbage.

I become so angry, it’s sickening. I hate people who are happy. I hate people who complain about petty shit. I hate people who have it all figured out. I hate people who have no emotional understanding. I hate people who assume I should just deal. I hate people who pass judgement on my every fucking move. I hate people who think, for one second, they could deal with this pain. I hate people who have never been single a day in their adult life telling me to not feel completely lost. I hate people who have no courage to be alone telling me to stay strong…ALONE. I hate people who use that bullshit line, “you think you’re the only one in the world who…” No shit I’m not the only one going through shit. But I’m living my life. Is a rape victim supposed to think, “well, someone else went through this and worse so I should just get over it.” UM, NO! I hate the bullshit optimism and then the continuous “whatever” mentality when everything doesn’t go as fucking wonderfully as you’ve tried to convince me it would. You were wrong. Accept it. Admit that being a part of my life was a mistake and walk away. I’m giving you the option. Because I hate, more than anything, anyone who will stay in my life and is miserable because of that connection. Just walk.

I have bargained. I will do anything. I will die if it means peace for my son. For people around me. I will shut up and take it. I will forget. I will forgive. I will pretend to be happy when I’m not. I will do whatever…if only…

I have fallen into depression. I feel guilt every fucking day for existing. For just being alive. Wouldn’t people be so much better off if I were gone? Wouldn’t they all just be happier if I never existed? I have cried myself to sleep and screamed to a God I don’t believe in. I have begged for mercy. I have prayed on the phone. I have called hotlines. I have puked out the remnants of an empty bottle. I have lost myself in the pure feeling of being a mistake. I have been ashamed of my feelings because I have a child and I should never think of my own end. What kind of mother am I if I don’t want to jump out of bed every day to look at my beautiful boy? I feel guilt that he got such a pathetic ass excuse of a mother as me. I feel guilt that I am not better. That I don’t even know how to be better.

Acceptance is supposed to be that one when things make sense and there is a sense of peace and clarity. But in my acceptance, I have come to an understanding that none of this pain will EVER go away. My life is meant to be shit. And it will never change. It will always be this hard. It will always be this dark. It will always hurt this much.

Feel free to have a rolling of the eyes session, a “this bitch swears” moment…I seriously don’t fucking care. These are my emotions. These are my thoughts. This is my life. It is not and does not have to be a part of yours.

In all honesty, there is only ONE thing I am certain about…just one…but it is the most important thing for me to know – I love my son. I love my baby boy with every ounce of my being. I do not care if not one single person on this planet cares about me as long as my son knows I love him and I live ONLY for him.

In all honesty, my son is the ONLY thing I’ve done right in my life. The ONLY thing I am proud to be a part of. The ONLY reason I have the tiniest glimmer of hope in my heart that this life can be beautiful. As hard as the days get, I know this life has possibility…for happiness, for love, for laughter, for growth, for beauty…ONLY because he is in it.

I am a flawed human being. I am struggling to find peace in this battle. I am lost, scared, uncertain, feeling broken…

BUT I am willing to continue my journey, no matter what, because my son will always know I kept going…despite it all…FOR HIM. Here’s to healing, to growing, to figuring me out. To fixing me. One stage at a time.


1.194 – Happy Birthday, Mother.

Dear Mother…

Today is your birthday – a day I should cherish. A day that subsequently gave me life. It’s been quite some time since words were shared. It’s been even longer since I’ve cared. And yet, here I am, writing to you…wanting nothing more than to say fuck you.

For not knowing how to love your daughters. For creating for soldiers of hate instead of faces of love. For abusing the only man that ever loved us without defiling our bodies, minds, souls. For loving money and dick more than your blood. For teaching us to hate ourselves, our skin, our minds, our voices. For creating a path of destruction.

I could hate you but I don’t.

I will never understand how this all came to be….how you gave up without ever trying…how you infected us with your worst features and took pride in damaging us. Setting us free into the world like a flock of demonic doves – deceivingly beautiful to taint good things.

But I will not fly for you. I will not spread your tyranny. I will not infect my kin as you did with free will and conviction.

I’m blowing out the candles, all 58 of them. I’m blowing out the flames that have seared my self-esteem for 28 years. I’m blowing out the candles and spending my time loving my son so he never knows doubt in me…never knows your plague.

Happy birthday to you. May your last candle burn out soon enough so the world can be free.

1.149 – Erotica and The AHA Moment

So, technically, I should be packing…seeing as I’m supposed to be moved into my new apartment in like…two days. But I’m not packing. Not because I don’t want to.  I really don’t want to BUT this particular moment of packing procrastination has been brought on by an Oprah “AHA” moment. (Did she patent that, because if she did…yeah, she can’t take much from someone who doesn’t have squat, right? Here’s hoping.)

Anyways, my “AHA” moment happened while I was putting books away in my new place. I used to be a hoarder of books. Seriously, in the past 4 years, I have visited the library at least 4 times and donated at least 70 books per visit. Needless to say, my current library is slim pickings and yet…I feel like I should be getting rid of more things instead of just transferring all of my garbage from a two bedroom box to a one bedroom box. But moving right along…

The “AHA” moment happened when I held a book called Smut. It speaks true to its title but I only know that from reading a synopsis of the book. I’ve never actually read it. I bought it a few years back during my erotic reading phase. (Aqua Erotica, Master/Slave, Different Loving…all good titles…I’ve actually read these…and FYI to all you bandwagon Fifty Shades of Grey readers – feel free to read Different Loving to understand that Dom/Sub relationships don’t have to be all about hard, rough sex. It doesn’t have to be about sex at all. This stupid craze with this book is going to push some desperate lonely housewives to go out searching for the type of relationship they touch themselves to from that book when in all actuality, it’s not that simple. Period. And now I’m done with that little side rant).

I realize that I haven’t read this book and yet, I don’t want to toss it. And I ask myself why. I’m not reading it. I have no desire to. The price I paid wasn’t a doozy so I’m at no real loss. So what am I holding on to?

I’m holding on to the thought that if I toss it…I will suddenly need it when its gone.

Yep, that was the moment. I just related a smut book to relationships. Ain’t it funny how we hold onto things that aren’t good for us, people who remain toxic to us and our growth because we are so scared that once we dispose of them…we will have nothing? We keep bad friends, relationships that aren’t fulfilling, we stay in marriages that died so long ago we can’t even recall when we liked that person, we master the art of bullshitting ourselves into believing that we need something we really don’t. Instead of having a bookshelf free of useless nonsense that is no longer applicable to the person I am today, I’d rather have a full shelf of things I will never touch. Meaningless, insignificant but full.

Sounds like the story of my life. I’m going to admit that I put the stupid book on the bookshelf. I’m not friggen superman here, people! I had an “AHA” moment, not a friggen personality makeover. But I think it’s still a start.

The first part of letting go is realizing you don’t need to be so scared of having nothing that you’ll hold on to anything. Apply this to your life, relationship, career as needed. I know I am.

1.137 – Invisible

When I was seventeen, my mother figured out that I was living with an eating disorder. I don’t say suffering, I don’t say struggling, I don’t say battling. I was living with it. I ate. I threw up. I hovered over the fridge at 3am and engulfed everything in sight only to vomit it in a toilet five minutes later. I’d gotten so good at it, I evolved from using my fingers to just thinking about it.

“Vomit, damn it.”


It was that simple. But I was discreet. Yeah, I’ve always been skinny but at that time, I was convinced I’d only stay that way if I kept my body as empty as my heart felt.

But she figured it out. She sat me down in her poor attempt at being a mother and asked “why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

I never threw up with my mother in mind. I never thought, “this chicken thigh is for you, ma!” I threw up because it felt good. I threw up because I could control something. I threw up because I’d failed at trying to be a cutter so I needed something that was mine. I threw up because I didn’t feel so dirty. I threw up because I was convinced someone would love me if I was tiny. I threw up because  I didn’t have any other great attributes. I threw up because it felt good to flush away garbage and not have to carry it for years on end. I told myself I didn’t do it for her. I didn’t do it because I hated life, the world, myself.

“I just want you to see me,” I replied.



I just wanted her to see me. To acknowledge me. To say I was wanted. To say I was loved. To admit she messed up but she did care. To show one ounce of loving me more than she loved herself. To show some sense of pride in having had me. I wanted her to see me…as something good. She never did.

The story of my mother is a book all on it’s own. One I could not write because it’s one I couldn’t ever reread…relive. Not just for me. For my sisters. For my nieces. For my nephews. For my son. I cannot relive it all. Because poison kills. I made it threw once…just barely. I wouldn’t take my chances with a second go-around.

I haven’t forced myself to throw up in years. I think about it. Sometimes, I know this sounds stupid as all hell, I miss it. But I haven’t. Because I don’t care anymore.

Quite frankly, sometimes, I’d be happier if no one saw me at all.

1.133 – The Price She Pays

She can forgive those who hurt her the most but she can’t forgive herself for mistakes made and wrong paths taken. For dreams unfulfilled and thoughts to be had. She can’t forgive herself for sins she never committed and crimes she never saw but she will hug the demons that ripped at her soul, that egged her on as she sat under the droplets of a long cold shower…a pile of pills soggy at her feet.

She can forgive those who hurt her the most but she can’t forgive herself for the lost time and the aged bruises upon distant faces in unforeseen times of crisis. For the desire of her heart that burns like a trickling ember down a slope of sand. She can’t forgive herself for acts of weakness and moments of vulnerability that ended in a dreaded stalemate but she will forgive the taunting of enemies she now dines beside.

She can forgive those who hurt her the most but she can’t forgive herself for the whimsical thoughts of escape into a time and space when she could matter and mean and know and feel and love and be loved and grow and prosper and be recognized for more than the wickedness that spews from her mouth.

To run away from who she is into a storm cloud of who she could be…atonement…to nod and smile and accept the foe as a friend because no one else will know her name beyond bitch or slut or hey you or loudmouth or mistake or why are you still here. Redemption.

She can forgive those who hurt her the most but she can’t forgive herself for being born and breathing and wasting time and wasting space and not being smart enough and not being skinny enough and not being funny enough and not being glamourous enough and not being innocent enough and not being beautiful enough and not being sexual enough and not being enough enough enough enough enough

Worthy, special, wonderful, vibrant, brilliant, magical, hypnotizing, tempting, amazing, captivating

She can forgive those who hurt her the most but she can’t forgive herself and so she is willing to walk a mile…a million miles in shoes she doesn’t want to wear just for the sake of being…someone.

1.117 – I Quit

On my way home from work, I got to thinking about my writing.

Where the hell is this going? Is it going anywhere at all?

The answers are simple: I don’t know and no. That being said, I start reflecting on why the hell nothing is going nowhere. And I reflect on my own bitter, emotional moment of the day.

It sucks when you feel like people see you for your negative attributes. I float in the ongoing punchline of me being the mean girl. Maybe its’ funny. Shit, maybe it’s true. But I really don’t want to be the mean girl. I’m just extremely sarcastic and extremely…blunt at times. Label it rude, obnoxious, neurotic. Maybe I’m making up for years of living in the damned shadows…I don’t know.

I’m probably all of those negative things and more. But I’d like to be better. My writing is nothing but I’d like it to be more. I’d like to know more than five people are reading this damned blog. I’d like to see my writing flourish into something worth sharing. I’d like to be considered a talent, a person worth knowing, something more than a late night secret friend. Yeah, I said it. Because I know that’s what I am to people. Someone worth knowing in the daytime at a distance and someone worth talking to late at night when no one else is available. My writing is what people read because…well fuck if I know why people read any of this. It’s about the same as me wondering why the hell people waste their time…AND MINE…talking to me.

It’s all a crock, really. It’s all made up. It’s all a badly written work of fiction. It’s all maybes and what-ifs, coulda woulda shouldas and false precedents.

I want to edit Dream Catchers. That will probably never happen. I want to complete Euphoric Damnation…which is on an indefinite pause because the concept sounded good about 5 months ago but now just seems to be a stupid ass story. I want to write a trilogy called Windows – one story told from his perspective, one from her perspective and the final one being the truth. I want to write a humor piece – one story done in several genre formats. I want to re-write Lullaby – a play set in in the voice of suicide and the victim. I want to write Killing Off Allison. I want to compile my poetry and finish The Dark Room. I want, I want, I want…to write, to write, to write…


I wont do any of it. Because I’m one of those fucking people. I’m all talk. Because attempting at putting these ideas to paper will force me to realize that I’m a fake. I’m no fucking writer. I’m just one of those people who spews out ideas. And the majority of them suck ass.

I want people to think better of me. I want to be valued for what’s in this mind of mine. I want there to be a reason I am the way I am. I thought writing was my justification. But maybe…no, I’m pretty sure…there is no justification. I’m just not what I thought I was. I’m nobody…babbling on about nothing. I’m a con artist – making you believe I’m strong, smart, pretty, artistic, confidant, secure. But I am none of those things. I am a weakling, screaming for acceptance at the top of my lungs. The problem is…no one seems to hear me. Or maybe they do. Which is by far the worst of fates.

Maybe this is just a majorly self-deprecating emo moment. But for the first time in 20 years, I’m almost certain it’s time to give this shit up. My fear of rejection obviously outweighs my desire to live the dream. Story of my fucking life. The self doubt is debilitating. And I’m over feeling like a crippled woman, friend, artist. I just want to fade into the backdrop and pretend it never mattered.

My love affair with writing is over.

That’s it. I quit. I’m moving on. (Thanks Sam Cooke).

1.112 – My Loves Contract

In order to be myself…I am willing to be by myself

I will not claim perfection but relish in the beauty that is my chaotic mind, heart, and soul.

I will not stifle my words, emotions, thoughts for the sake of fitting in.

I will not tread lightly to fit any gender roles.

I will grow towards the sun.

I will rest beside the moon.

I will not give of myself physically for the sole sake of pleasing another.

I will not fake a smile, a tear, an orgasm, a laugh for the sake of anyone’s ego.

I will not be fooled to believe that every love story is a long story.

I will not settle for a punchline.

I will love with my whole heart when it is deserved.

I will not let everyone behind my walls.

I will not hold anyone captive within the walls.

I will not say what needs to be said just to “play the game.”

I will not treat anyone like a predator.

I will not be anyone’s prey.

I will not pretend to care when I don’t.

I will not pretend to not care when I do.

I will indulge in a kiss like it’s the first time.

I will not waste away my years trying to fill anyone’s voids.

I will not be a walking tomb.

I will never replace/become “her.”

I will allow vulnerability to overshadow my fears.

I will be honest about my insecurities.

I will not let them haunt me.

I will be myself.

I will be alone.

I will be okay.

I will sign on the dotted line.


1.91 – Yeah!

(That title should be read in the extreme Lil Jon voice, btw)

You know when people say, everything happens for a reason? I hate that. It’s so stupid. It’s so annoying. Yeah, it’s so true. Long story short – I had plans to go out with a group of girls, which I pretty much never do. I canceled my part in the plans for a reason I believed, and still do, was valid. I felt like it wasn’t meant for me to be apart of something like that. Just not my time to make friends, I guess. I’m not going to lie. I was bummed.

And then something happened. And things changed. And I spent a really great evening with four awesome chicks. Four girls who are so very different from me. So very different from one another. And yet, it worked.

People may not “need” friends. But we all want them. To connect. To engage. To interact and feel like you’re appreciated for your insight, humor, and style. I knew I liked these girls before. They are just fun loving, happy people. But now, I appreciate them even more.


Happy people. I used to say I hated happy people. Well, here’s my theory. Only unhappy people say that shit. I’m living proof. I’m glad the universe kicked my ass and made things happen tonight. I’m glad I got to laugh. I’m glad I was just the girl in a crowd. A very small, awesome, hilarious, interesting, cute as hell crowd. Tonight, I didn’t feel like the outsider looking in. Tonight, I didn’t feel like the insider looking out. I was a girl, enjoying herself with genuine people; I had no time to do anything but enjoy the moment.

What an inspiring night.