1.163 – Unfair Game

This week is a busy one. Between my son getting hospitalized, deciding to do Camp NaNoWriMo, and leaving my job in four days…I’m tired. But, life goes on and so shall I. My son is doing a million times better. I’ve made my choice for my June novel and I think I’m starting my new job on Sunday. On that last one…I’m actually not sure when my first day is, which can be a little bit scary. Here’s hoping I’m working this time next week.

Now that my son is better, my main focus is on this upcoming project. It’s really all I can think about. This is definitely what I needed. I was excited about Novembers NaNoWriMo but this one feels different. Do I think this is my big break? No. But I feel a sense of pride in knowing that I am not second guessing whether or not I should do this. I am excited to create more new material to work with rather than staying in the safe zone of hovering over a piece I don’t even have the courage to edit. I’m thrilled to be trying something new.

On a side note: I had an interaction with a guy today in which I was in my safe zone because he was being a pretty big smart ass. (This was not a prospect in any way: I’m in no position to be dating and though I don’t enjoy the thought of being alone, I know dating some random is not going to fill the voids I have). Yes, he was attractive in a bad-boy sort of way. I could handle the smart ass, it makes me feel at home. But then he did something I didn’t see coming. He acted nice.

I know. I’m an asshole. I get freaked out when a guy is nice to me. It does one of two things to me, actually. A) I think he’s mocking me somehow so I feel stupid and I shut down or B) I turn up the notch on the bitch factor so that I don’t enjoy anything I am convinced I will eventually lose.

I went with B. I was a royal bitch/smart ass to the max. He hung well with it for the time we carried conversation but when he said bye, the tone changed. Like he was disappointed or something. Like, he didn’t want it to end like that. But it did. And now we will never see each other again. And I feel terribly guilty. Not because I think something could have blah blah blah. But because I intentionally came off like a untouchable to someone who was trying to get to know me, even for a moment. I didn’t do it because he wasn’t my type. I didn’t do it because his humor annoyed me. I did it because…I’m so fucking scared…I don’t want anyone to get close.

I totally went through the predator/prey complex today. I was the predator. I won. But I think I lost.


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.

1.118 – Searching For Something

The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it – kushandwisdom.tumblr

Someone posted this today on Facebook and it caught my attention, with good reason. Self reflection is a bitch. A bitch I don’t like but one that is continuously all up in my face.

The other day, I had an allergic reaction to food I should not have eaten. It wasn’t that serious – easily fixed with three shots. It was actually quite embarrassing. No one wants to be THAT person in the middle of the scene. Jesus H. Christ, just give me a pill and Ill be fine…and stop poking me with shit. No, I don’t want to pay far too much money for a two minute ambulance ride. It all seems very silly – people have heart attacks. People have seizures. My throat burned and tightened up and I had trouble breathing. A couple of hours later and I’m doped up, passed out on my couch.

All I could think about was my son. I’m not supposed to go out like this. I’m not suppose to stop breathing because of a piece of fruit. My son is at daycare and expects my ass to be there, bright and vibrant at 5:30. But the fact of the matter is…if something did happen to me…something triggered by bad footing, eating the wrong thing…a life changing moment unforeseen by anyone…life will go on. With or without me.

I can tell myself that I have all the time in the world to get my shit together. To reach my goals. To pull my head out of my ass and face the demon that is my self deprecating low self-esteem…but I don’t. I might only have today. I might only have this hour. I might only have this minute.

Will I teach my son…will my legacy be that I was a quitter? That his light wasn’t bright enough to push me through the dark hours? Fuck that noise.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what my career is supposed to be. I don’t know if I’m ever supposed to be an accomplished writer. I don’t know if I’m supposed to ever be in love again. I don’t know why I’ve beat the odds as many times as I have. I don’t know why I let my fears get the best of me.

I may never know that magic of love with another adult. I may never get beyond working at the level I’m at. I may never be on a bookshelf. Those are all maybes. But what is certain is that I’m going to die someday. SOME DAY. But I’m breathing today. I have a voice today. I have feelings today. I have thoughts today. I have love for this life in my heart today. I can teach my son something today.

I’m not dead yet. So I need to stop acting like it.

I laid in that ER room and scrolled through my phone, searching for someone to come and get me. “Do you have a ride,” the nurse asked a million times. And I was ashamed. Because I didn’t. Because if something had happened to me…who the hell would they call? Who would answer the phone? Yeah, I’ve got friends. Yeah, I’ve got family. But who would…who could drop it all for me? Staring at my phone…scrolling aimlessly…that was hard. Realizing I havent made that deep of an impression…

But hell if someone didn’t help me out. And I’m grateful. I may not have any ONE person who would drop the world for me. But I have ONE that I would drop the world for. And if that meant walking to my car, drugged up and all, I would have.

I’m not dead yet. So I need to stop acting like it.

I’ve still got time to make that impression. To be the light to others that my son is to me. I don’t know how. But…I want to figure it out. That, alone, is a step toward something.

Something more meaningful. Something connected. Something magical. Something worthwhile. Something better.

1.115 – My Light (PART 2)

The life of pregnancy ensued. Cravings of dumplings, crushed ice (only from Quik Trip), Butter Pecan ice cream, (entire quarts in one sitting), cucumbers with salt, and Mexican food (which I never eat), took over every waking moment of my day. I struggled to gain weight despite my obsession with food.

At the end of my first trimester, I bled enough for the doctor to show a little bit of concern. Lowering my amount of activity was in order – leaving me to stay home a high majority of the time. Cabin fever kicked my ass. But I was pregnant and that was all that mattered. Nothing was going to break my excitement for this little gem.

Finding out the gender of my upcoming angel – I was elated to carry the little man I had so been blessed with. I proudly showed off his sonogram pictures, flaunting his penis to anyone that would look at me for more than five minutes. “Hey, I’m having a boy…wanna see his weenie?” Yes…I said weenie.

Close to the end of my second trimester, literally on the verge of my third, I was up late one night at my mother-in-laws house. I couldn’t sleep and my husband was knocked out. Somewhere around 4am, I decided to call it a night. I went into the bathroom to tinkle…which is seriously complicated when you’re pregnant. I had a moment of embarrassment as I sat down on the toilet, feeling the liquid gush down my legs. Way to go ass, I thought, you just pissed yourself inches from the toilet. Damn, I must have really had to pee…that was a lot. And then, I noticed it wasn’t urine on the floor. It was blood. It was a lot of blood. It was the ocean I had swam in just a decade before. I screamed. I was a damned banshee.

Needless to say, I ended up in the emergency room, dripping with every step to my designated room. I waddled with a “don’t fuck with me, I’m too pregnant for this shit” attitude. All I could think was…FIX IT. Whatever it is…FIX IT! The nurses did their thing and the doctor came to me promptly. My husband sat across the room as I soaked the bed with that all too familiar crimson fear. The doctor ordered for a sonogram. And that’s when my world slowly shattered.

The nurse came with the machine and set me up to hear the babies heartbeat. She moved that wand around for what felt like years. She tried to hide the scowl of auditory strain but it was clear to me. “What’s the matter,” I asked. She shook her head and kept moving that stupid wand.

The doctor returned and she tried whispering. I say tried because I’m blind as a fucking bat, which means my hearing is sickly keen. “I can’t find it,” she said. Without skipping a beat, I yelped, “well, you’re machine must be broken or you aren’t looking in the right spot.” I started pointing to a specific spot on my stomach. “His heart is right here. It’s right here, damn it.” The doctor appeased me and asked the nurse to grab another machine. Apparently, I’d come between a shift change so the nice doctor was leaving. Before he made his exit, he asked me if he could pray for me and my son.


Rule of thumb: when someone says they want to pray for you…they think you are fucked. Ain’t no one praying for you when you win the lotto. But I took it. Whats the worst it could do, right? I’m no believer but that man’s eyes said he needed to pray for me. He couldn’t leave until he made peace with this situation. And so he prayed. And then he left.

I was still bleeding all over that white bed in that white room on those white sheets when the new doctor walked in. This man had absolutely, positively NO bedside manner. Zip, zilch, NADA. The nurse returned with a new machine and searched for the heartbeat of my little love all over again.


Deafening, terrifying, endless silence.

The doctor exited and came back just a short while later.

“We are preparing a room for you upstairs in the hospital.”


In no uncertain terms, with just a few pauses for dramatic and quite frankly, traumatic effect…this doctor laid it all out on the line.

“There is no heartbeat. We believe the fetus has terminated. We will be setting you up in a room to induce labor.”


The nurse put her hand on my shoulder. My sons father put his hands to his face. The room was still.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ma’am, the fetus is gone. We will deliver it upstairs in a room that is better suited.”

This man just told me my baby was dead. My baby was gone and they were going to pump me with some shit so this dead baby would come out of me. I was going to deliver a dead baby…why was he dead…how did he die…what did I do…what the hell is happening?

“I’ll leave you alone for a moment to talk.”

To talk about what? You just said my baby was dead and I was going to deliver a “fetus.” You referred to my child as “it.” I didn’t even have to look at my husband. I knew what I had to do. So I grabbed the sheets from around me and made a makeshift diaper. I slid off the bed and stood by the door. “What are you doing,” he asked.

I’m going home.

I opened the door and walked through the lobby. The nurse ran to my side as did the doctor who, just moments ago, was standing at a counter looking at his next paychecks file. The nurse tried to explain that I had to wait for a wheelchair to take me to my room.

“I’m not going to a room. I’m not staying here. I’m going home.”

She tried to interrupt me. But she didn’t know me very well. With tears in my eyes and agony in my throat, I choked out the words, repeating them until I couldn’t anymore.

“My son ain’t dead.”

I checked myself out against doctors’ orders. I returned to the house and plopped my feet up on a pillow and rubbed my swollen belly until I fell asleep. I did not move from that bed until all traces of blood were gone.

Two days later, my OBGYN saw me for an emergency visit. The drum of my sons heartbeat was the affirmation that I had made the right choice. I fought for my little man when everything said he was gone. I could have listened to that doctor and had my son born 3 months premature. I could have ignored something in my soul and let my son die at the hands of a man who referred to my angel as “it.”

My son is a part of my soul, my heart, my everything. And nothing can match that attachment. Not a machine and sure as shit not another human being.

My body had killed off an unborn a decade before. I lost one. I would not lose another without a fight. I am my sons soldier and he is my country. My sons heart is my heart. If he were dead, my heart would cease to beat. I am 1000% certain when I say I did not guess. I knew. And no one will ever convince me otherwise.

1.93 – Money, Power, Respect

The rich get richer. The poor get screwed.

It’s no surprise to anyone that Beyonce and Jay-Z welcomed their first child into the world recently. Congrats and welcome, Blue Ivy.

That being said – I think it was a dick move to buy out an entire floor of a hospital and infringe on the rights of fellow new parents, several of which had their child in the NICU.

I get it. They don’t want pictures: because those will make them money later. They don’t want anyone stealing their child for some insane ransom. Yes, their are psychos out there.

Solution – Pay the reported 1.3 Million Jay spent on renting the entire floor to transfer all medical equipment and staff to your home and delivery in peace – IN YOUR OWN SPACE!

It’s disgusting how these people came from nothing, and yet, forget so quickly what the simple things mean. To push aside the common person, that has spent money to get you where you are, in order for your extreme level of comfort is sickening, pathetic and annoying as all hell.

Jay is talented. Beyonce is some sort of idol we now worship. And in turn, these people can do as they please. Lets be real. They make music. They aren’t curing diseases. They aren’t stopping child abuse, poverty, homelessness, starvation. They make fucking music. Clothes. Whatever.

Yet another pathetic example of how money means everything in this world. Celebrity is more important than new life. A sad truth.

Money equals power and respect means shit.