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.


1.137 – 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.

1.123 – The Letter

To my beautiful baby girl….. On Feb-16-1984 I gave birth to you in an unconventional manner. First you came into this world too soon and too little, weighing only 6 pounds and 1 ounce. At 6am in the morning, after they made the incision in my stomach, I didn’t care I just wanted to look at you and hold you. But I only had a glimpse and I kissed your head. You stared at me and I felt small. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a boy at all only that you were so small. My love for you knew no height. My guilt was even greater. Why did it happen? How did it happen? When you were inside of me I loved you, I didn’t take good care and that was wrong but no amount of self indignation can ease this pain. The next day I went to see you and I knew fear. And I prayed. God please…don’t punish me this way…its not her fault she’s so tiny, It’s mine. Tears wouldn’t make it better but every time I see you they just come out. It hurts because you’re so special. I dont want to lose you. I’m so afraid I wish that I could take your place and let me go through the agonies that you are going through now.  I need to hold you very very bad. I need to kiss your tiny body, to hug you tight. I want to give you my life, every ounce of breath. Please….fight because if anything happens to you, some part of me will die. Please….understand that I love all of my daughters the same but you U love all the more. And every time I visit you without ….incubator and see you all I have put you through I want to break every damn thing around me. And those needle marks do not help to make mother better. Love, today I visited you and saw that you had gained a tiny portion of weight but you were under that infernal light and I still had no pride because I shouldnt have allowed for you to be brought into this world so easily in time and with so little defenses.  …..you’re my last child. The baby of the lot and I don’t care that you’re my fourth girl only that you’re health improves and you come home but until you are really stable, I will have to be able to leave this pain and need to hold you. 

This is the first page of a four page letter my mother wrote to me after I was born. It is a letter that I have kept for 28 years. It is a letter I can’t force myself to throw away. It is the letter that tortures me. Angers me. Saddens me. For so many years, I couldn’t figure out why my mother had so much guilt. What had she done to be so remorseful for? It took many years and many conversations to figure out. Someone recently said it was hard to believe that I had avoided a drug infested life because of the odds against me. This is true. I was a junkie before I understood what walking was. My mother brought me into this world dependent on her drugs and alcohol. Her addictions forced my out of the womb, into a world that wasn’t ready for me. And a world, based on my many months in the hospital, that I wasn’t ready to be apart of. For so many years, I thought I should have been a boy. I needed to hold on to as many masculine attributes as possible. Because thats what everyone really wanted…what everyone really would have loved. It’s okay you weren’t a boy…doth thou protest too much. This letter saddened me for a really long time…how could this apologetic woman never really love me? Forsake me for any man that looked her way? Ignore the mental/physical/emotional anguish I was battling? Inflict so many scars? But now this letter just angers me. I am not a perfect mother. But I will not knowingly inflict pain upon my light and then say my bad. If my son says someone touched him – I will believe him. If my son needs me – I will be there. I will love my son unconditionally without trying to live his life. I will not inject my son with poison. Period. This letter gets me all fucked up. But I hold onto it as a reminder. Of what not to be. A reminder of why I fight every single day. A reminder of my goals, my duties, my privileges. Some days, I question whether my son was blessed or cursed with having me as his mother. But this letter pushes me to be the best damned mother I can be. That was the best mother she could be. Was it good? No. Was it right? No. Did it hurt? Yes. Does it still hurt? Of course. Am I a fucked up 28 year old because I have mommy issues? Probably. Will my love for my son surpass my hatred for those who abandoned me? Ya damn right it will. I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t wanted. I may not be wanted now. I’m okay with that. Because this life aint about me. Never was. Never will be. This life…this one is for my boy.

1.98 – More Randoms

Apparently, the muse has taken a road trip and forgotten to take me along. I mind as well bang my head against a wall, because it’s about as useless as trying to randomly think up something to write. I’ve gotten some great suggestions including a feature on my upcoming vacation to NYC. That is something I will definitely work on…when I’m actually in NYC. But for now…I’m just the girl without a dragon tattoo and without anything interesting to say.

So here are my randoms:

If you are 16, I don’t want to know about your sexual exploits. Hell, if you’re 30, I’m not interested. But 16…well, that shit just sounds creepy. I was 16 and I did my dirt. But I wasn’t putting myself on blast either.

If you know I don’t like you – don’t make it your mission to make me like you. That will, in turn, make me like you even less. My friendship is not a trophy – not something to be won. It either happens, or it doesn’t. In this case, it won’t. So put the checklist away because nothing about that is genuine. And therefore – friendship is not an option.

I hate the fact that when I write something out, it never sounds as funny as when I say it. Maybe it’s my facial expressions, my emphasis on certain words…I don’t know. But I find that when I write something…it’s flat. But when I tell the exact same thing to someone…they crack up. WTF.

Garbage disposals are not strainers. WTF is this one leaking? Seriously…I mean, come on.  I’m definitely on someones shit list.

Gay people are not handbags. You can’t take them to every fun event because they look good on your arm. I’m just saying.

My son is on the “I’m going to pull my diaper down” kick. This is great. Almost time for potty-training. Except when he’s shit in his diaper. Then, it’s not so great. It’s shit on my carpet and that is just not cool. That’s…well…shitty. They need a cleaner called shit-be-gone. I would buy it.

Can someone start a website called Beautiful On A Budget. And by budget, I DO NOT mean 100 bucks for jeans and 50 bucks for a shirt. I mean, momma got bills to pay and a mouth to feed and really wants to still look cute despite only having 30 bucks to my name. If it exists…um…let me know. I can manage being poor, hell, I’ve done it my whole life. I’m just tired of looking the part.

FYI: Half ass compliments are worse than no compliment at all. See the above random. Thank you.

I know I’ve said this before but I can’t say it enough: Little girls who shop at Victoria Secret creep me out! It’s gross, it’s weird, it’s wrong. You don’t even have hair on your body..not because you naired it, waxed it, bicced it…because it hasn’t grown in yet. STOP IT!

People who say I have it easy because I have a boy. Um…no. I have it just as hard. I have to do double duty to teach my son not to fall for the girls in the above random. I’ve got to train him to pay attention to the things those girls parents chose to ignore.

That’s it. For now.

1.88 – No More Casualties

Dear Hunter,

I knew, when I carried you in my belly, that this life would be a hard one for you to live. It’s becoming harder and harder for people much younger and younger. Today, mommy read something about a young girl who ended her life because people were mean to her and she felt alone. Which is why I’m writing this letter to you, one of the hundreds I will write over the years.

That young lady took her life, in mommy’s opinion, for many reasons. People were not nice to her. She felt alone. Her parents missed the mark. I know I will mess up as a mother. I will fail you and in turn, you will make mistakes I should have prepared you better for. But I’m going to try my hardest to make those failures as few and far in between as humanly possible.

Baloo Bear, you’re not always going to like me. I’m not going to play the part of one of your “buddies.” It is my honor, duty and privilege to be your mother, your soldier, your advocate, your confidant. After all of that, I am your friend. But never before and never in its place. I cannot and will not give you everything you want.

I will do my best to teach you how to defend yourself with your words and physically, because sometimes, you might have to defend yourself against the ugliness of peoples hearts. I will do my best to teach you to be kind to others, to base your reactions on actions versus assumptions. I will do my best to teach you that you are loved no matter if you are straight, gay, artistic, non-artistic, soft spoken or loud as all hell. I will do my best to give you what is lacking in this world right now.

I will push you to be your best. I will be nosy. I will ask you where you are going and with whom. I will probably drive by to check. I will not let you have a computer in your room. You will not have a cell phone unless you can foot the bill. You will buy your first car which will probably be a piece of shit. And you will value it that much more because you will have earned it. I will remove your door if need be. I will not get you the newest whatever when you already have things JUST BECAUSE your friends got the new junk. I will encourage you to be yourself despite the crowd. I will nurture your passions to the best of my ability.

I will remember that I was a kid once. That I was self-conscious of my apparent poverty, of my looks, my thoughts, my feelings. I will remember that I wanted my independence but I also wanted to know my parents cared. I will remember that I thought I knew it all at a very early age. I was wrong about a lot. But I still believed. And it took lessons learned to show me otherwise.

I will live my life and let you live yours, under my guidance and helping hand. I will let you stand alone to be the best damn man you can possibly be.

I will emphasize education, articulation, respect for yourself, for women, for elders, for animals, for this earth, for children. I will teach you that respect 9 times out of 10 MUST be earned. I will emphasize that you only get ONE life.

I love you, Hunter Daniel, to no end. I will fight the good fight for you, beside you. You will resent me, hate me, call me mean and evil. I hope, someday, you know – I will do what I can to give you something better. I don’t need you to think I’m cool. I need you to respect me. To appreciate the message I hope to spread.

I will lay down my life for you, if thats what it takes.

I will not, and I repeat, will not bury you.

Love, Mommy.

This letter is for my son. This letter is for every child I have never met. It takes a village to raise a child. Our village, this country, is failing as our children become bullies and victims. We fight terrorism around the world. Our neglect as parents is the true terrorism. I fight for the end of the casualties. 


1.72 – Letter to “God” 2.0

This gallery contains 1 photo.

Dear “God” I’m going to pretend for a moment that I fully believe in you and pen this letter. I don’t fall under the category of people who pray and talk to you when they want something or the people … Continue reading

1.69 – Expendable

Whenever my son  gets a little too rambunctious for my liking, I tell him the same thing: “Cut it out or I’m going to stick you in a box and send you to China.” Obviously, he has no idea what I’m saying but the ongoing joke always calms me and lets me see that my child is just that – a child.

By the time I was five, I’d lived with my mothers sister, my mothers youngest brother,  a couple named Laura and Barry and a woman named Evelyn. My mother left me behind, taking my older sister with her. I don’t know where they were through the years, but I’m sure my sister didn’t have good times. I’ll never know what she saw and went through…I don’t admire her predicament.

When I was 13, I left my mothers house and moved in with family friends. My mother decided to join me upstate, along with my father. When I was 15, my mother vanished. Well, she didn’t exactly vanish but that is a story meant for another post. My father wasn’t doing well health wise, so we moved back to the city. He moved in with one sister and I moved in with another. The sister I lived with got evicted. I moved in with my friend Christina, her mother and brother.

I’ve slept on many couches. I’ve stayed out way too late because I didn’t actually have anywhere to go. I’ve been left behind. I’ve been sent away.

I’ve got mixed emotions about this. Has it always left me with a sense of not belonging? Yes. Have I met amazing people along the way? Yep. Do I struggle with feeling thrown away… expendable? Yes. Do I know that the road I traveled brought me to my son? Yes. Do I regret that? Not one bit.

When my son gets to be a handful, I tell him I’m going to stick him in a box and send him to China. He acts like I’m saying nothing. As he should. Because I’ll never send him away. He will not move around the way I did. He will not wonder whether I love him or not. He will not question why I left him behind. I will not be sending my son away to China nor will I send him to wait for love on anyone’s doorstep.

1.52 – War

My father taught me countless lessons throughout his time in my life. He taught me it doesn’t take sperm or blood to be a father. He taught me that real love is unconditional. He taught me you fight for your children and do everything in your power to protect them, nurture them, and show them that you are always there. My father taught me what hard work is. My father taught me pick my battles. Above all, my father taught me to stand up for what I believe in and fight with conviction for those things that stand close to my heart.

I am lucky enough that my sons father is a good one. This man has not missed a single weekend and takes him every single day he has off of work. He plays with his son, teaches his son, tells his son how much he loves him every single day. He calls every single night to hear his sons voice and though our situation is not conventional to many, we both do everything we can to keep the bonds of father and son & mother and son strong. We put our nonsense aside because our son deserves the best.

But not everyone is so lucky.

I know a beautiful young man who battles Cerebral Palsy every single day. I know a beautiful young man who has exceeded all expectation of every doctor and every shmuck who looked at him and thought of him as just a label: retard. I know a young man who is intelligent, funny, charismatic and more loving than 99% of the population.

Sadly, this boy has a deadbeat dad.

A deadbeat dad? No, not such an amazing child…never!

No, I’m serious, he’s one of the biggest wastes of human flesh I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Deadbeat though? That’s harsh. 

You might assume so but you see, I have the official “You’re a Deadbeat/Waste of Space” Checklist right here in my pocket and he definitely hits all of the marks. Wanna see? I thought so.

You’re a Deadbeat/Waste of Space 

When you visit your son for a couple of hours every occasional Saturday. 

When you don’t visit your son on Thanksgiving.

When you get married and don’t invite your handicapped son to the wedding because you’re ashamed of him.

When you don’t want to wake up at 5am on the morning of your sons surgery because “that’s too early.”

When you don’t want to wake up at 5am on the morning of your sons surgery because “that’s too early,” AND YOU DON’T HAVE A JOB!

When you don’t ever pay child support. 

When the only reason you’re keeping you parental rights is because you’re hoping my sister will die so you can get my nephew, toss him in a home and move you and your wife into my nephews house to live off my nephews money. 

When you marry a complete moron. She must be brain dead because I’m not quite sure how an intellectual woman marries a no good loser who won’t visit, care for,  or love his handicapped child. 

When you’re past thirty and you’ve finally transferred from your mothers tit to that of your wife. Way to be a leech til the bitter end. 

Yes, I’m hateful right now. I’m disgusted by the fact that this man is even breathing. Listen here blue tooth, and I’m not talking about a phone device, you are the saddest man I have ever known. You are a disgrace to anything resembling a man. Men like you should be castrated. Period.

Are you ashamed of my nephew? Well, he should be ashamed of you. But he isn’t. You know why? Because he doesn’t know you. You are a stranger. You are a nothing. A persona non grata. You are a bum.

My nephews father died July 22, 2011. My father did more of a job raising my nephew then you ever did. More than you ever will. You are a disgusting, despicable human being. You and your family should be completely ashamed of the ugliness that is your collective hateful soul.

My father taught me to pick my battles. People who fuck with my son, my nieces (all four of them) or my nephews learn to regret it. Karma is a bitch and a persistent one at that. When your world crumbles, I will be there, with a pleasant smile on my face.

Anyone can be a father. It takes a real man to be a dad. If I see you on the street, I will spit on your face. And when you die, I will dance on your grave.

I am truly looking forward to the day.

1.39 – Parental-State of Mind

I don’t even know where to begin today.

You know what never made sense to me? Children fighting adult battles. That’s a pretty broad arena to be confused by. But it’s one that puzzles me beyond belief.

Two adults have a moment, nothing good comes from it. In turn, their children and whoever else is available at the time gets involved. It becomes a lovely Facebook drama, broadcast for anyone and everyone to laugh at.

But I’m not laughing. I’m disappointed.

You’ve got teenagers threatening each other and calling for physical harm because adults got so caught up in their mess and pulled these innocent bystanders into the mix. I could be mad and spend this time talking about how ignorant these kids sound, misspelling every other word and talking out of their asses. Let’s be real: if you were gonna do something, you wouldn’t be talking about it on some social media site – you’d be out there making things happen.

It’s a clash of egos. Who’s wealthier, who’s making moves, who has a kid, what guy so-and-so was sweating for the longest time and so on. And all I can think is: WHO CARES?

WHERE ARE THE PARENTS WHO STARTED THIS DRAMA? Why are you such a coward that you can’t deal with your issues on your own without bringing some teenagers into the mix to fight your battles? Because I’m sure the parents are quiet. It’s just another day of dramatic nonsense to them. But these kids are stuck on stupid, soldiers in a war they have no reason to be apart of.

It’s bad parenting all the way around. I don’t care if your kid is grown. My son could be 30. He doesn’t need to be on some site talking trash to some other 30 year old to defend his mothers honor. Honor is what gets these kids stabbed in the streets. Honor is what makes these kids go out and shoot each other – to save face and restore honor to someone who didn’t have the maturity to deal with their problems on their own.

Seriously, grow up. There are bigger issues than the trivial street life mentality these people allow themselves to be sucked into. Of course, I might get criticism because “what the hell would you know about street life, you live in Kansas.”

No, I don’t live “that life,” everyday. I was born into it and made the wise decision to walk. To never let where I was born or who I was born to determine my destiny. I made a life somewhere else. And though my life now may not be all stars and glitter, it is a life without street battles and being a soldier to a government that does not really care.

If the parents actually cared about their kids, they would put a stop to the garbage instead of relishing in the monsters they are creating – all for the sake of looking important.

At the end of the day, none of these people are relevant in the world right now. And they sure as shit won’t be relevant when they are on the news for being shot down or arrested for their stupidity driven actions.

These kids don’t even know what they are fighting for. And their parents don’t seem to care. Way to drop the ball. I’ll be changing the channel when the inevitable happens. Because you can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.