One of the best and most inspiring titles of a book, to me, was Maya Angelou's "Wouldn't Take Nothing For My Journey Now...". Even though I wasn't as crazy about the book as I had been about "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings", I loved the title because it so accurately summed up how I felt about my life.

I wouldn't change a single event, good or bad, in my life. Every sorrow, every struggle, every blessing, every pain has made me a stronger person. Whether or not I'm a better person remains to be seen but I know I am infinitely stronger for all my struggles. That's something I want to instill in my children. Hard times will come but it's all in how you handle them. You can sit and wallow for a time but by God you'd better get your ass up and fight.

That's what I am determined to do.

I will fight.

I will succeed. And  no man will stop me.


War and Peace...

I've had so many people try and drag me down. I have never really understood why. I consider myself to be a good person overall. I don't seek revenge, I treat people as I want to be treated... so why the hate towards me?

Am I something to envy? I doubt it. I have my blessings, sure, but overall? I can't imagine anyone envying overwhelmed parent, debt-drowning, overweight, unhappy lil ol' me.

I had a blog prior to this. I shut it down because someone used my private thoughts, my honest and open thoughts, against me in the most hateful and underhanded way possible. Nothing I said on my former blog was untrue, might have been ugly but it was truth and I stand by what I wrote. But whoever betrayed my confidences, relayed misguided and twisted info to someone that is bound and determined to hurt me to my core. For the first time ever, I felt fear from this person. I felt the full rage, anger and hatred of this person. And even when this person confronted me about the things they "heard" I'd "said" I still owned up to them. Damn right I said it, I wrote it and I'll tell anyone that what I wrote was truth. Even when confronted by nastiness and threats I still asked that person, "Did I say anything untrue?"... I got hate and rage but I never got an answer to that question.

This person has declared all out war against me. My kids are involved now.

That... was a mistake. Threaten me, do not threaten my kids. Mama Bear has her claws out now.

I'm out for blood.

I don't fight dirty. I won't fight dirty. But I will not be threatened and it's my duty as a parent to protect my children.

I have no intention to stop blogging or writing in my journals, writing articles and so forth. I will still stand by everything I write and will declare it true based on my viewpoint.

Peace time is gone for now.

I declare war.



Once again, I was undone...

Totally emaciated and very nearly destroyed, my will almost broken.


I'm not out for the count. Nope, not by far. I've had a hard row to hoe for a long time now. I was hurt and I cried, I sulked and I moaned, bitched and complained and nearly gave up.

I won't be broken though. I won't let my faith in God and self be severed. I can't. I have to be an example to my girls so that they will know that regardless of what life throws your way, you have to bounce back. Either dodge the bullet or take a direct hit, lick your wounds and carry on.

Failure is not an option.

I cannot be defeated. I will not be broken.

I will rise again.

Fuck that. You know what?




Peace Passes...

So... it's been a long week.

Also, a not-that-great-week... very suckish indeed.

A whole host of shit happened this past weekend. I've rediscovered that too much contact with my parents makes me a very grumpy girl.

On Saturday I blew a tire and was stranded on I-95. No one I knew would answer their phones. Despite it being a weekend, despite me being on a major, crowded highway, not one person came to my rescue, not one state trooper, police car, motorist assistance ever came. My mom ended up coming to get me. Drama ensued.

My father moved back in this week and began picking the children up from school once more. As a result he's back to his old self again doing the things he would normally do; and as a result of that my children are spoiled fucking brats.

I'm their mama, I can say that.

They've pushed me over the edge with their whining, laziness and overall triflingness. All of those bad behaviors disappeared when my dad was gone. Everyone was happier, relaxed, eating healthier. Dad came back and now all they do is whine and eat, whine and fight, whine and eat some more. I am no longer the ruler of my abode. All peace is gone. I hate coming home. I cannot sleep, don't want to eat. Stressed out once more.

Oh and then there was that pesky thing about the Pennsylvania interviews... which I did do. So now the waiting begins.

Despite it all, despite my bitchiness, despondency, and so on I did get to participate in an activity that gave me peace, even though it lasted barely 10 minutes.

I sky watched.

When I was a kid and my parents would start arguing, fighting and carrying on, if I didn't hide in the closet I'd run outside to my favorite tree in the front yard. I'd lay on my back and stare at the sky and let everything else in the world just fade away. The cool, moist earth beneath me, the expanse of the heavens above me.

Some people see shapes in the clouds. I see faces. I see profiles. I see abstract art.

This evening when things got to be too much for me, I took a chair out to the deck along with my mp3 player, slouched down and stared at the sky. There weren't many clouds, thin whispy one that were very scarce. But they were there and staring up at them and feeling the warm spring breeze on my face and arms gave me comfort. The breeze was sweet with the scent of cut grass, wild onions and flowers. A bee buzzed past me but didn't bother me.

For almost 10 minutes I found peace in the same manner I did as a child.

And then I had to come in the house and break up a fight, clean up cat vomit that my 9 year old child stepped in while wearing my shoes (of course) and clean up more vomit from my 3 year old who coughed till she threw up.

Fun times.



From the moment I heard about you on the news on January 25th I knew. Your family was on the news denying it but in my heart I knew. I knew from all the little signs years ago, from the sadness that always lingered in your lovely brown eyes. You were always so serious, so kind, so warm yet… sad. You were one of the few people that were so sweet to me during those wretched years at that awful place.

I was surprised to see you were married and saddened to hear of the divorce. You were so young, too young to leave but I understand more than anyone will ever know. I understand why you felt the way you did. I understand why you did what you did.

I have prayed for your family, your mom in particular, every day since January 25th.

I’m so sorry that you felt you had no other option but to end it all.

I’m sorry that the world failed you.

I hope with all my heart that you’ve gotten the peace you sought.

You and that lovely smile will be missed.

Rest in peace Jill.


It’s odd that when life hands you a pile of shit you’re expected to work with it and work at it until that shit blossoms into something beautiful and productive. Right now I’m at a point where I’m up in the air about the direction I want my life to head. I picture myself on a path and there are a million a thousand like ten different paths to choose from to proceed in life. It’s not necessarily a bad thing either just… I don’t know. I’m conflicted. (You liked how I tied in the title didn’t ya?)

For example, by mid-year or so I should be able to at least qualify for a first time buyer home loan. I could move as far away or as close to the city as I like. This has been a dream of mine for so long. But… if I move I have so many things to consider like school districts, fencing for the dog, proximity to the girls’ pediatrician and future job and college locations. Another little caveat? Although I may qualify for a loan by my birthday, I’m not sure it’s wisest to move before my lease is up. I know my landlord would let me out of my lease. He’s a good guy like that. But to have to come up with all the fees to purchase a new home AND still be paying rent while living in this home and attempting to make repairs here so I don’t get hit with a bill from my landlord is a bit much. I also feel like buying a home in VA will tie me down you know? If I wanted to apply for a job in another state I’d be faced with problems.

Which brings me to another path: jobs in other states/countries. Truth is I’ve been applying at my job for a promotion for quite a while. I make the register, have the interview, do well and then… nothing. Found out the reason I wasn’t getting the jobs was partly personal because I have a lousy reputation thanks to rumor-mongers and my batshit crazy mother, and also because of my low security clearance and inability to obtain a higher one. Add to that the fact that I want to put as much distance between me and my antagonists as possible and I’ve been applying for jobs all over the world. And you know what? I’m making the registers and having interviews. I’ve got two interviews next week for two different agencies in Pennsylvania. If I am offered the position, am I ready to go? Do I really want to go? What about the girls’ school, which they love second only to me. It’s a guaranteed promotion, I could always come back to VA but it’d be at least two years or more before I returned. What to do? And if I am offered the jobs, what the hell am I going to do about this house I’m renting now? I’d have to come up with repair money (and there are plenty of cosmetic repairs to be made) and moving fees plus have money available for another place to rent and… I think my head just exploded. But to think of being far, so far from everyone… it’s like a dream you know? The way a kid feels on Christmas Eve: sort of scared but so fucking awesome.

Another road I could take? Applying for positions with the Army and Navy civilian locations. I honestly think that these are the best bet for me now because I could move just far enough to keep travel time to the kids’ present school under an hour and I could still move farther away. And I do mean FAR. Tons of inexpensive rural property out yonder. I have it good at the job I have now. Uncommonly good. But I’m stalled out salary-wise and I need more money to provide better for the girls.

Another little issue? Once I get my bachelor degrees, maybe my masters in both as well… I had my heart set on law school. I even know the law school I want to attend. Moving too far or out of state would severely complicate things.

Moving out of state would also dramatically affect the girls too. Not Trinity so much as it would affect Jaalyn. She’s at an age where she’s becoming uncomfortable about herself and isn’t quite as outgoing as she used to be. Making new friends is hard for her. Ripping her from her comfort zone bothers me intensely.

Hm… just writing this all out, seems like the choice (or at least A choice) is clear. Moving out of state just isn’t for me. Not now. Unless the job had more positives than negatives or was one of Jaalyn’s chosen locations (somehow that dream job in Hawaii doesn’t seem likely). Jaalyn wants to be anywhere that’s near water. That’s my future marine biologist for you.

Which leads me to another conflicting emotion. Do I go ahead with the two interviews for PA anyway? Or do I call and say that I’m no longer interested? Or should I go thru with the interviews for the experience and only worry if they happen to call me saying I got the job?

Damned indecisiveness.


There are times that I don't want to be a mom anymore...



At what point do you just stop caring, throw up your hands and walk away from a situation in disgust?

Jesus H. Christ... honestly, I am sick to death of bitching and complaining about life. Probably as sick of saying it as you all are of reading about it.

But, DAMN. Can not one fucking person on this planet respect my decisions? What the hell do I have to do to maintain peace and control in my life? I thought I was doing good. I got rid of my antagonists. I thought I was rid of the people that stressed me. I cut my mom from my life. I shipped my dad back to his own home. I moved nearly an hour away from my children's father.

It is not enough.

My mom visited me at work and we got into a lovely screaming match in the parking lot.

Today she dropped by unannounced, when I've pointedly asked her not to. I hate the fact that people will do that to me. Uninvited guests are my worst peeve and oddly enough I got that shit from my parents. They also hate uninvited guests. I wouldn't have opened the fucking door had my kids not been all up in the damned windows looking back at her. It didn't matter that I had shit to do. Doesn't matter that I have my final today, that I needed to briefly go out and get a few necessities. That the house wasn't straight. That I specifically asked her NOT TO COME.

The children's father... I... I just can't go there.

Jaalyn called my dad and asked him to come back at least for the week that she and her sister are out on spring break. So although he's gone, he'll still be back.

I just can't win.

No one respects my decisions. No one respects me as a person. No one respects me as a parent.

I would do anything in the world for some peace of mind. Peace in my heart. I'd love for people to actually respect what I say and do. I'd love to be permanently separated from those that seek to dismantle my esteem and want nothing more than to see me fail.

Maybe one day I'll do it. Maybe one day I'll achieve the respect I want.

Goddamn it. I'm so tired of being miserable.


Seasons of Change...

I love where I live. Not the neighborhood necessarily, but I love living in Virginia. I’ve rarely been out of the state but for me, nothing is as beautiful as my home state, regardless of the season.

I’m not one of those people that has a preference for the seasons. I don’t particularly favor one season over another. Rather, I embrace each season as it comes and consider them all to be favorites. I love the summer, mainly because I was born in August but also because I love the sweltering, humid heat and the deafening late evening/late night thunderstorms. I love those drenching rainstorms that appear out of nowhere and just as soon as they appear, they are gone, leaving the earth drenched and steam rising from pavements and asphalt covered streets.

I love the coolness of fall and the Indian summers that sneak in there every year. The changing leaves enthrall me and leave me wondering at the outstanding beauty of so many tree lined streets. I love the crunching leaves beneath my feet and kicking the dry sticker balls that fall from the sweet gum trees. The scent of wood fires drifts in the rural air and the anticipation of the upcoming holidays trills through children and adults alike. Will it be too cold for princess costumes on Halloween? How many layers to wear for my alma mater homecoming football game? Thanksgiving’s coming, will it rain just like it always seems to do?

Winter brings its own special joy. The myriads of annoying-as-fuck insects are dead or dying. Temperatures drop to bitterly cold numbers. Just inhaling the air slices your lungs into ribbons, yet is still so intoxicating. There’s the fun of watching the old folk predict how harsh a winter we’ll get and whether or not snow will come. Usually we get no snow but this past winter we were surprised… often… eventually too often. And for some odd reason we always manage to get temperature spikes as high the mid-80s right in the middle of winter. It’s the weirdest thing I swear. There’s nothing more unusual to be taking a hike in the dead of winter and come across the odd snake or two because the heat has them (and you) confused as hell.

Spring is here now. The air is perfect for long evening walks and outdoor fun. Soon my worst nightmare will come true, just as it does every spring: the fucking caterpillars will appear. *shiver* I LOVE butterflies but I hate the stages that create them. Birds are singing singing everywhere… and shitting shitting everywhere… Fun fact: I have exactly one tree in my front yard, beside the driveway. I am beginning to think the birds either hate me or there’s a target painted on top of my van because whether I park directly beneath the tree or no where fucking near that bitch the birds drop bombs like no tomorrow.

Anyway, gnats are flying about getting into noses and eyes and buzzing around ears. Mosquitoes are breeding in the damp soil leftover from way too much unexpected snow during winter. Trees are just beginning to bud and blossom. The few that have flowered are outstandingly beautiful. Rivers, creeks and swamps are swollen from one of the wettest calendar years on record. Everything seems to be thriving. The kids are looking forward to the warmer weather and more outings on weekends to local farms, zoos and shelters. To them there’s nothing better than nuzzling your nose into a small furry kitten or being kissed by warm puppy breath. Nothing makes you feel better than to swing as high as you can, so high, but not too high, leaning back and feeling the sinking and swaying deep down in the pit of your stomach. Nothing compares to wrestling in the grass, picking flowers and studying countless pieces of gravel for mineral deposits. Dipping toes into still cold water in the creekbed and examining rocks for smoothness in the wet sands therein.

There’s something to love in every season. I look forward to the changes and surprises. As spring blossoms, so does my life and expectations. I hit a real low point the other week. So low that I wasn’t sure I could go on… wasn’t really even sure if I wanted to go on. But I fought my way through it and I won. I got words of advice from a priest, prayers and blessings, burned some sage and smudged.

I can’t get that low again. I have to be able to change with the tide, with the seasons. It’s time for a rebirth and spring cleaning.

I’m cleaning house y’all…

I’m taking control of my life and making serious changes.

And the first thing I did… was cut off my mom…

The second thing I did was boot out my dad…

I had to recognize my limitations. Simply put, I was doing too much, for too many, too frequently. That shit had to stop. I lost focus. I lost ME. I nearly lost my mind and with it, my life.

I repeat, that shit had to stop.

Time for change and refocusing on what’s most important: me and my girls.

I won’t be distracted or deterred.

I, quite simply, can’t afford it.



Xavier and I met on the job. He was an armed guard at the gate. His presence, his physique, his voice… all mesmerized me. He was a very intimidating guy. He wowed me with his charm, his intellect, his humor. Every single thing about him was sexual. I don’t mean that he talked sex to me. I mean everything he said, did, walked, talked… it just reeked of sexuality. He could’ve been standing still in a blizzard with sixteen overcoats, four hats and mittens with smileys on the backs of the hands and it still would’ve oozed sensuality.

He talked of his life. Told me of his wife and daughter that was killed in an auto wreck. Talked of his family and roots in Lousiana. Spoke fluent Creole and was delighted that I could not only understand him but answer him back almost as fluently. He spoke of his previous careers, Navy reserve life, his goals and dreams. He met my daughter, something I’d never permitted any other man to do and he sang to her as she slept and read book after book to her before bedtime. He’d bring her treats and would hoist her onto his shoulders so he could take her to the neighborhood ice cream truck and buy her the biggest and best treat she laid her eyes on. Once she was tucked into bed and fast asleep he’d turn his attentions to me. He’d tell me how he lusted and craved my body and would ravish me with rough kisses and the passion I’d only dreamt of. There was no part of my body that was off limits to him and he’d take me, hard, fast, teasingly and roughly. Then he’d switch and be so tender that it would make me cry. Often, he never came, never finished; me, I’d almost faint from the heat and having so many orgasms I’d be hoarse from screaming. He was hands down the best lover I’d ever had. He was everything I wanted.

We’d do everything together. Talk all night, meet up before work the next morning, dinner in the evenings. He taught me a few Creole recipes and loved to help me cook in the kitchen, sneaking kisses when Jaalyn wasn’t looking. When he proposed, I thought life couldn’t get any better. I was ready to love again, ready for more kids, ready to be a stepmom to his adopted son.

Then cracks began to appear… Xavier was a loving man towards me but terribly possessive. If I stepped outside of what he deemed proper for me there’d be hell to pay. He never raised a hand to me but would eviscerate me with his tongue and I’d be in tears for hours afterwards. He was a mental mind wizard, always playing games and evaluating and testing me. He’d spy on me and accuse me of infidelity. Still, I’d brush it aside and take the love he gave me. Or the love I thought he gave me. Sex, though still fulfilling, was rougher and harder than anything I’d ever experienced outside of rape. He loved to pretend to choke me as he came, to put his full weight upon me and restrict any movement, any escape on my part. Stories he told me about his past became more embellished. His jealousy became worse, turned to rage in most cases. Eventually I got the guts to call it off with him, because he scared me, because it just wasn’t worth all the tears I cried. He stalked me for a while. Showing up at 2am banging on the door, calling nonstop, hanging up when I answered or vowing to kill any man I dared to let into my life aside from him. After 3 months of that, I moved. He terrified me and had long since gotten fired from our mutual place of employment.

A year later I saw him again… on the local news. Arrested in one county for felony threats, grand larceny, impersonating a police officer. Arrested in the city on similar charges, only misdemeanors this time. I was stunned and followed every word in the news and in the papers. More information followed. There was no dead wife and child. But there was a very real wife now. There was no wealthy family, no military career, no honor. He’d been captured when he attempted to take money from various women. This baffled me. Xavier was nothing short of generous with me. He never took money from me, always gave. More details followed. More lies exposed. Man, did I feel the fool. Yet, I still couldn’t shake the love for the man I knew he’d been. The man he was around me.

Jail. That’s where he ended up. After I was sure he was locked away, I delved a little deeper into his records and discovered the violence, the marriages, the other charges and the eventual petition for divorce from the wife. After he was released I saw him again. Repeatedly, around my apartment.

I moved again. And again.

And then I moved out here to the sticks. A place I don’t think he can find me.

And yes, despite it all…

I miss the sex.



We met when he was almost 16 and I nearly 20. For him it was love at first sight, for me it took me a while to get over the age difference. But after a couple of dates and meeting his mom and sister I let go of my fears and plunged into a semi-serious relationship with him. His mom encouraged me to visit often, loving the fact that I was a nice, quiet girl that was in college and hard working. She taught me a lot about parenting, now that I think of it. My mom wanted me to abstain from sex until marriage. Shad’s mom felt that sex was inevitable. If you’re going to do it better to do it safely, privately, with the proper precautions. She inquired about my condom preference and as much as it embarrassed the hell out of me to admit it, I told her. She provided exactly what we needed and her son provided me hours of pleasure.

Rashad taught me boldness both in and out of the bedroom. He taught me not to be afraid of voicing my thoughts. He introduced me to a variety of music and was the first to expose me to Erykah Badu. He was so funny and bold and brash. But of course he was immature too. And jealous. But my God he was a great lover. The things that boy did to me makes me blush now. But, many of those things he did, I taught him.

Eventually though the immaturity issue drove us apart. I lacked the patience to deal with someone I now deemed to be a child. I hated to part from him. I cried and if memory serves me correct so did he. Four years later we had a chance meeting at a hospital. I had just finished visiting my grandfather and he was there for… I don’t recall. I was pregnant, but not showing and desperately unhappy with my relationship. He saw me at a distance, called to me and when I drew near to say hi he immediately kissed me, smothering my hello. He’d always done that to me, no matter where we were or who was around. It was one of the things I loved about him and missed. As guilty as I felt, I followed him home and sat talking to him about his relationship, about mine, about my pregnancy. He asked if I was happy with my life and I admitted I was not but I was committed to making it work. He asked if I loved him and I said yes. He asked if we could try our relationship again and I said no. One of the hardest decisions I ever made at the time. He pleaded and I just couldn’t… and I left.

I haven’t seen him since that night.

Until last week… in our local Gotcha! paper. The paper that is printed with photos of most wanted criminals.

Damn, Shad…


The Long & Short of It..

So… life sucks donkey balls right about now.
Changes must be made but before I make them… can I get one last major Piss and Moan session? I feel the need to do it because, frankly, I have no one to talk to, no one to vent my frustrations on…

1. I hate, absolutely DETEST, my childrens’ father. I hate him because he has time, money, and lives the single life while I get homework, role modeling, PTO, tantrums and vomit. Conversely, I realize I have the better deal because I get the homework, role modeling, PTO, tantrums and vomit. Well, maybe not the vomit part. I hate him because he exists, because he refuses to allow my daughters to add my last name to theirs, because he doesn’t financially support them the way he should, because he misses every school play, every achievement, every report, every science fair project. Because he sees them when it’s convenient for him. because he badmouths me to them while drumming up support for himself and his girlfriend. Because he likes to show them off to his family and pretend he’s superdaddy. Because he only gets them on the Saturday after his payday so that he can try to outdo what I do on a regular basis. Because, because, because…

2. I’m fucking sick of school. I hate it. I don’t want to go on but I have to because I need to prove to my kids, Jaalyn in particular that it’s possible and good things will follow if you have your college degree. Why in God’s name I am double majoring, I have no clue. I’m a dumbass that’s also a glutton for punishment I suppose.

3. I have two pairs of jeans that fit me; I have one pair of shoes; an assortment of tshirts and a few sweaters. All came from thrift stores. I don’t know what it’s like to shop in the mall for myself. I don’t know what it’s like to buy anything new for myself.

4. I do not have my own room. I do not have my own bed. Last year Jaalyn began this thing where she wouldn’t sleep in her room, would sob and get me and my dad up a million times a night. Trinity was refusing to sleep in her toddler bed that was cousin close to my bed. One night I got frustrated and dragged my mattress upstairs to stop Jaalyn’s nocturnal wanderings long enough for us all to get some sleep. Yeah… like I said it was over a year ago. The room that was mine is now cluttered with junk and bullshit.

5. There isn’t a single room in the house where I can just go for some peace of mind or privacy. There’s no door the children won’t open. I never get peace. When it’s their bedtime, we all go to bed. I know I shouldn’t give in…

6. I’m so out of touch with myself. I get no joy from anything. I don’t indulge my old hobbies. Can’t concentrate long enough to read. Kids and dad monopolize the television.

7. I’m lonely. I want the American dream. I want the husband, more kids, financial stability. More importantly I want to be LOVED and cherished by someone other than my children. I want passion. I want to be loved. Period.

8. I want, no I need, more money. I’ve more bills than I can handle. I live within my means but simply put: I do too. Damned. Much. And the fucked up part? I don’t even get gratitude in return. Not a single thank you. Ever. That shit's about to change, starting today.

9. I’m unfamiliar with the woman I’ve become. I don’t love myself. I don’t like me. I don’t know what I enjoy. I’m not happy. I’m uncertain and nervous and I hate it.

10. I want another baby.

11. I want to move out of this awful, awful county. Nothing would make me happier than getting a (gasp!) doublewide on 5 acres of land far enough that I don’t have to worry about friends or family visiting. I’d love for it to have a brick foundation, decent sized deck, dog pen in the back yard and a swing set for the kids. Fully furnished home, new appliances, and a garden tub in a big bathroom. And to make it ultra country, a gravel driveway.

12. I want to be pleased sexually by someone that loves me intensely.

13. I want to be able to work because I want to not because I have to.

14. I want to stop procrastinating.

15. I want my dad out of my house and out of my life. This is very soon to become a reality... couldn't come at a more perfect time IMO.

16. I want to be able to tell my children freely what an insufferable, selfish ass their sire is and not feel guilty about it.

17. I want to be happy, focused, determined and THIN.
18. I want my energy back. I want my peace back. I want to have… I don’t know.

19. I want to be a kept wife. Cherished and treasured and oh so stable. I admit it and am not really ashamed of it at this point.

There’s so much that I want. So much I need to do. So many changes to be made. I have a habit of making everything harder than it has to be. Overanalyzing, worrying and then finally giving up and not doing anything. But I need peace in my life. I feel if I obtain it then everything else will fall into place. I want to be happy. I deserve to be happy. So do my kids. If I am happy, they will be too.

But how?


Still Here...

I'm still here.

I'm not suicidal. Not really.

Just overwhelmed. Very much so.

Sorry if I scared the few of you that read this.

I've been letting a lot of people down lately. So this is no different.


See here's the thing about suicide... It's an incredibly selfish thing to do. You're only thinking about yourself. About your pain. You're not thinking of the pain you'll cause someone else, however temporary it may be.

Things can't be all that bad. Right? Sure it seems like you're stuck in the same perpetual cycle, much like a hamster in the wheel. It never gets better, same shit always. The fact that it likely will never get better. Look back over your life; how many times have you felt joy? Compared to so, so much pain...

But you'd never see your children again. Never have arms to hold them. Eventually they'd forget you anyway but still. It'll hurt them for a while. Especially knowing that you offed yourself. That would bother them in the adult years.

You wouldn't have to worry about bills though. So many freaking bills. They just won't go away. They multiply. Jesus if people would only stop hounding you for money.

Maybe... maybe this is why you've had this fear/fascination thing with water. To be able to float, or sink or whatever. At least then, you'll be alone, at last.

All the privacy in the world. Peace beyond passion.

Beyond caring.

Beyond pain.

Beyond worries, beyond stress...

I don't want to go...

I'm so, so tired. Things never get better. Only more hopeless. I just don't know what to do anymore.

All I ever wanted was to be a good person, a good mother. I feel like I'm failing in everything.

I just don't know what to do anymore.



I fell off the blog wagon. Darn.

I'd meant to write everyday with the exception of the weekends. I'll do better, I promise.

The week wasn't a good one, but then again most weeks aren't really good weeks, especially the first week of the month. When the bills are due and the money isn't there... *sigh*

I'm just so fucking tired of it all, you know? I feel like  I'm stuck repeating the same cycle over and over again. Things look bright for a few fleeting moments and then back to the same old shit. I am so sick of worrying about money. I do my best to live within my means and every time there is something odd or far fetched that soaks up my income like a dry fucking sponge.

I want out.

Jesus... if it weren't for my kids... I don't know. I don't know what I'd do. Parenthood just put extra pressure on money woes doesn't it? The pressure of not letting them know you're stressed out of your mind, of not letting them know the utilities are about to be cut off (again), that the landlord will be pissed (again), that lunches and treats will be minimal (again). Hard enough to do the single parent gig without feeling like a failure on top of it all.

All this stress, all the time, all the odd occurances has turned me into something I swore I'd never become.

A martyr.

Fuck. I used to be the type that bemoaned the single mom stigma that every single parent must be worshipped and adored for simply overcoming or just dealing with the day-to-day stuff. I hated the term "Strong, Black, Single Mom" because it seemed redundant and banal. What a fool I was. This shit is hard. Very hard. Especially when you don't have the other parent really supporting you like he should.

And that other parent issue... dude. Don't get me started. Granted, he has come a long way since Jaalyn was born. Since Trinity was born. But it wasn't without yelling, screaming and practically crying blood tears on my part.  Now he's stepped his game up because he has a woman in his life to impress; I recognize (now) everything he's been doing over the last several months to be the exact same thing he did with me when we were dating. For all that he does now, it's still a far cry from what it should be, especially when it comes to child support.

I'll put it out there: I went to the Dept of Social Services website and plugged some numbers into the child support worksheet. I know he makes more than I do, so I estimated his income to be about 5K more than mine. Then I did it at the same income as mine. Either way, the amount he ought to pay (around $2,100) is a far cry from what I receive (around $600). His income being more than mine or the same as mine did not change the overall contribution amount more than $100 if that.

That's a huge fucking difference.

The thing is, I am afraid to take him to court. We have not gone since Jaalyn was 13 months old. Back then I got screwed, royally because I was the more responsible parent (the judge's words, not mine). By law all he's required to give me is $81 a week. When Trinity was a year old, he voluntarily increased it so that we wouldn't go to court. He knows I'd rather keep things out of the court, I know he dreads being forced into a court, so we settled our differences ourselves. I didn't want him to take revenge on me if I did take him to court, by trying to fight me for custody and visitation. I'm almost certain he'd do it. And because I'm not entirely convinced I'd win I've staved off dragging him into court.

But now... I'm not so sure anymore. The worst of it is that if he does try to take retribution and take me back to court for visitation I could potentially be forced into a holiday schedule of sorts, meaning I'd have them every other holiday instead of every holiday. I couldn't bear to miss Christmas or birthdays or whatever simply because their dad decides to be an asshole and get me back for forcing him to pay up for his responsibilities. But I just don't know what to do anymore. I really don't.

Either way, even if I did take him to court it doesn't do a thing to help out this month. This month I'm screwed. I don't have rent. I don't have my car payment. I don't have tuition money. I don't have utilities.

I am SO fucked.



So far 2010 has been all about Tiger-Gate and the myriads of women he's fucked.

Let me tell you, Tiger has nothing on Tire-Gate...

This past Wednesday night as I left work I noticed my van was making a funny noise. I was yakking away on my phone, talking trash to a guy so I didn't pay it much mind. By the time I'd gotten off the interstate I was pretty certain that the dull roar that was slowly getting louder and the sluggish pull of my steering indicated I was developing a flat tire. No biggie, I'd had a slow leak for a while and have an air compressor at home. The closer I got to home, the more I prayed ohGodpleasejustletmemakeithome.  I make it home, get out and examine the tire... which is um... flat... and uh, smoking. Holy fuck.

I go into the house, Dad is finishing up dinner on the stove. I said I have a flat tire. He says no problem I can fix it.* I said yeah but it's not only flat, it's smoking. The tire is done for and I need the spare put on. He says yeah but it's no problem.*

*Let the record show that whenever my dad says "No problem" this indicates that we are indeed about to have a very big problem.

Dad says he will simply blow it up.
Before I can continue I need to explain something about my dad. You know those men, those fathers that are handy with tools, can fix relatively minor problems around the house, change the oil on the car and do those basic "manly" things?

My dad is not that man.

My dad is more like this. If it doesn't involve duct tape or Gorrilla Glue he can't fix it. Well, he can't fix it properly. There's a difference. My father is the man that will fuck up the simplest repair and spend gobs of money doing so, only to eventually have to admit defeat and call a professional to repair all the shit he fucked up plus the original repair. That is my dad and I love him anyway...
Getting back to the tire. Dad said he'd blow it up. He gets the air compressor, attaches it to my tire, turns it on and voila! The tire begins to fill up with air. I went inside to check on the kids and about 5 minutes later Dad follows. He takes off his coat, fixes a plate of food and a salad and sits down to eat.

Then I heard the explosion.

Le fuck? Perplexed, I looked out the front door and see my tire, if possible, FLATTER than before. I turned around and yelled in disbelief "YOU LEFT IT ON?!" "You sat down and ate and left the thing on?!"

He said "No problem*, I'll just put the spare on. Won't take but a minute."

It took longer than a minute. It took the rest of the night... the following day... and most of today.

So, first he had to locate my jack and spare tire. Found those except the part of the jack that you use to get the lug nuts off, well dad had fucked that piece up the last time I had a flat tire. He bent it almost beyond recognition. Anyway, he got the spare out and propped against the car. The attempt to get the lug nuts off did. not. go. well. At all.  Dad blamed the mechanics and airguns. I thought they were called air wrenches but what do I know, being a girl and all. At this point I mentioned that we could simply call a tow truck and have someone put my spare on. Dad says no, I can do it. It is at this point that silent pleas are flung heaven-ward by me.

Dad tried and tried and could not get the nuts off the van. He leaves, goes to Wally World and comes back with not one but two wrenches ($25 & $35 dollars respectively) to attempt to get the nuts off. 30 minutes later he comes in triumphant. One lug nut has been removed. He holds the wrench up as proudly as an Olympic torch bearer. Then he says except, um, I can't get the nut out of the wrench. Quoi? Sure as shit, the nut is jammed in the wrench. Of course the other extensions on the wrench don't fit my tire at all so... let's leave that till morning and try and work it out.

4:30 Thurday morn: Dad is outside still struggling to get the lug nut out the wrench. He gives up and tries to use the fucked up wrench from my jack. Doesn't work. I get the kids up and ready for school. Dad drives the kids to school and drops me off at work. He says that he's going to buy a compressor and air gun (wrench, I corrected) "since this is a problem we'll always have." I timidly point out that you know, we could call a tow truck and spend about $75 and be done with it. No, he says, he can handle it.

Quarter of nine that morning my girl friend calls me at work asking have I heard the news? No, what? EVERYONE that left out the front gate yesterday got flat tires. Hoards of angry worker are rushing the police department at work because the tire spike strips malfunctioned and slice people's tires to ribbons. We're talking hundreds. She tells me call the police dispatch and give them my info and the government will reimburse my costs for repair. Jubilant, I call my dad with the news. "Go ahead and call the tow guy", I said. No, he's getting the compressor and other stuff.


3pm he gets my kids from school. 345 he gets me from work. The entire way home I hear about this fucking compressor and all that's wrong with this brand new equipment that he has no idea how to use. All evening he grumpily tried to get it going. All evening he failed at said task. At one point he got it going and tried to remove the lug nuts. Nope. He comes in and declares disgust and defeat and sits at the table brooding. Suddenly his face brightens and he announces that he thinks he knows what he did wrong:

I had it in reverse.


Tries it again. DOES NOT WORK. More grumbling and raging, equipment brought back into the house, I'm going to bed, door slams.

Fast forward to this morning: Dad announces he will try again and if he can't get it he'll admit defeat and call me to have someone remove the tire.

By 10am he called me to admit defeat and have someone remove the tire, natch. I call a company close to my house, kindly gentleman answers and says sure thing, I can do that. It'll cost $45. Mr Tow Guy comes to my house, removes the tire in 2 minutes,


Infuriated... Indignant... Indecisive...

In the 1950s my father went to a Catholic school specifically for blacks in the inner city. He grew up during the Civil Rights era, never participating, only observing. Based on what he observed, he formed his own opinions on race relations.

In the late 1970s thru 1991 I attended Catholic schools. I learned that there was a special month dedicated to Black History by watching an episode of the Cosby show one Thursday night. I believe it was Theo that had to write an essay about the Civil Rights movement and did a piss poor job of it and the grandparents ended up schooling him on it. I sat enthralled. There was no mention of this stuff in my history books at school. There was a token picture of Martin Luther King somewhere but aside from being shot dead and making a speech about a dream I really had no clue about history, slavery, Civil Rights, black power, black inventors, nothing. Far as I knew the only significant black in American history was Crispus Attucks and I didn't learn his race until nearly 8th grade. It wasn't until I graduated from Catholic school and entered a public high school that I really learned that, oh my fuck, there's an entire MONTH dedicated to us. Albeit it was the shortest month in the year but dude... in the libraries I learned about Benjamin Banneker, Phyllis Wheatley, Malcolm X, George Washington Carver, and so many more. Then I learned about local blacks like Bill Robinson, Arthur Ashe, Maggie Walker, John Mitchell, Jr. The more I learned the more I became incensed that WE, my people, my ancestors, were left out of so many books. After all the struggles and accomplishments, blacks couldn't even get a fucking paragraph in a textbook.

Fast forward to the present...

My daughters, yes both of them, now attend Catholic school. Jaalyn has attended this school since she was 4 years old. She is currently 9.

Not once has Black History Month been acknowledged at that school.

Not. Ever.

I asked the principal about it. Why didn't she mention a new person each morning before prayers commenced? They do it for all the saints on the feast days and the even read a short history of that person. The principal replied that she usually leaves that sort of "thing" to the individual classroom teachers. It's more of a Social Studies kind of "thing". And she admitted that when she taught third grade she never "got around to it" until March.

I blinked.

And then I mentioned that March is actually National Women's History Month.

I wasn't sure I even heard her correctly. I didn't want to hear her correctly. Because... That. Is. BULLSHIT.

What the fuck? Seriously what fucking year/century... I mean WHAT?! The goddamned President of the fucking United States is fucking BLACK. When he won the election last year it made fucking HISTORY.

How can... let me pause because I'm getting heated...

I simply don't understand it. The school my girls attend is pretty diverse. Way more diverse than the schools I attended. Often there were two blacks in my classes; me and Georg (no -e, just Georg). We were like pepper in the salt shaker you know? Very evident, very obvious, very awkward. But my girls' school has more black students, black teachers, Asian students, ESL kids, Hispanic and Latino children. The bulk of the student body is still White, but when you look out at the sea of cherubic faces every shade of person is represented in some way. Yet...

No one celebrates it.

I can't tell you how insanely angry this makes me. It's not just about Black History, Women's History, Asian-Pacific or whatever. It's about education. It's about the fact that I pay money for this education and not just a little bit, I pay a LOT of fucking money all year long. I pay because I want my kids to have a better education than the public schools can provide. I pay big bucks for that privilege. But when shit like this happens, I feel like I'm getting a raw deal. Because they are not teaching my child as much as they could. Hell as much as they should.

My daughter already gets angry when she notices toys specifically marketed to white children or the token black person in some of her favorite shows. She has a very loose concept of what racism consists of and understandably despises it. The kids in her class are very bright, very inquisitive as all children are at that age. Their minds are the proverbial sponge primed for soaking up succulent morsels of knowledge...

And all their school give them is vinegar.

I could do something about it. I did bring the matter up with Jaalyn's teacher but I got no results. Well, that's not entirely fair. She told me there just hasn't been time to teach it. Okay, that's understandable with the snow days, parent/teacher conferences and so on. Now, I'm no professional teacher but I do know that dropping facts to kids in a fun manner can take oh I don't know... 10 minutes max? I'm not asking for a dissertation. I'm asking for acknowledgement. I'm asking that they try.

So like I said, I could do something about it. I could volunteer and teach the kids myself.

The question is should I?




Saturday night:  I awake with a start in the middle of the night to find my daughter, Jaalyn, just staring at me. Annoyed I asked what on earth was the problem. "I'm hot." I was angry at first but then I looked at her eyes and then her flushed cheeks, called her over to feel her forehead and reached for the thermometer...

101.1... fuck.

I get up, give her motrin and get back into bed. I tell her that if she's not sleepy she can play on her laptop or watch a movie on netflix. About 5 minutes later I hear gurgling and then the eruption. How she managed to vomit all over herself, the bed, the blankets but not the laptop I'll never know. She's crying, scared, unused to the process of throwing up. I talk her through each convulsion, trying my best not to blow chunks myself (Note: chicken ravioli with alfredo sauce and broccoli are quite repulsive when regurgitated.). When it seems that her stomach is calming down I dash downstairs for towels, warm wet washcloths, sheets, etc. I get her cleaned up and by the time I begin stripping the bed she's already back on her laptop, chuckling at a game she's playing, buck naked to boot. After I change sheets I slip a fresh tshirt over her head, put her back to bed, and settle back down to try and get some sleep. 20 minutes later I'm awakened by movement in the bedroom. It's Jaalyn again, this time holding her panties in two fingers of one hand. Poor kid. Two new major experiences in one night: Vomiting and sharting. Another cleanup...

Sunday: I spend most of the day doing laundry, washing hands, washing everything Jaalyn's touched, cooking bland starchy food to combat Jaalyn's diarrhea and praying desperately that Trinity doesn't get the same virus. By the evening Jaalyn's able to eat normal food and keep it down. Her fever breaks during the day but returns that night.

Monday: I keep the girls out of school. Jaalyn, because she still has a fever. Trinity because I suspect she's incubating the virus and I don't want to expose her classmates to it. Fast forward to Monday night... Trinity sits up in the middle of the night and vomits... and then vomits again... and again... and again. Fuck.

Tuesday: I keep the girls out of school another day; Jaalyn's fever hasn't been gone for over 24 hours, don't want to expose her classmates to the virus either. Trinity is just miserable. To be three and unable to fully understand what's happening and why is frustrating to her. She doesn't want to eat for fear of throwing up again and doesn't want to drink anything either until I introduce her to ginger ale.

Love at first sip.

By mid-morning my stomach is doing it's own do-si-doh and a trip to the bathroom confirms that fuck, I've got it too.

By the evening it's evident something's not quite right with my dad. He claims it's his sugar levels, they've been running high for several days. Then he starts stumbling and bumping into things. I leave the room and come back to him seated in a corner at the kitchen table with is head laying on his arms, school boy style. He says he's really beginning to feel lousy. I tell him go to bed, I'll finish dinner although the smells of the food make me gag. Jaalyn's the only one able to eat a normal dinner. Dad went to bed and slept for 5 hours and then announced that yep, he's got the virus too.

Wednesday: I manage to haul my aching carcass out of bed and take Jaalyn to school. I come home and lounge on the couch with Trinity allowing the tv to babysit for another day. I don't feel too badly about this though because I notice with the new shows on Nick Jr. she's actually learning things and repeating them throughout the day. Now after a long nap we both feel much better, although Trinity I believe is trying to milk this illness for all the hugs, kisses and ginger ale she can.

Back to work and civilization tomorrow. I hope.




Yesterday I said I'd write more often. I looked forward to the task because after writing I almost always feel better about whatever's bothering me. Today, it's a chore. Writing means thinking; thinking means worry (for me) and I've done my best this entire weekend to just try and slow my brain the fuck down.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I have the adult version of ADD because I have those moments where so many thoughts crowd my mind that I cannot focus on any one thing in particular and any attempt at doing so ends in failure. This is especially true at night or when I have something pressing to do. I become forgetful to the point of ridiculousness. More than once I've actually been in the middle of saying something and while speaking I'll completely blank out and forget entirely what I was talking about. It's insane.

So this weekend I've done my best to not think. To relax and calm my mind. Saturday was a bust and most of Sunday was too but today?


The girls entertained themselves with minimal fighting between them and I was left to my own devices. I had remote in hand and watched the History Channel nearly all frigging day. I've proclaimed before that I'm a history nut and on President's Day I'm in heaven watching... well, The Presidents. When I wasn't watching that I watched American Pickers on the History Channel website or else I perused other mundane material. Completely vegged out. I felt guilty at first, because it just seemed wrong, for whatever reason, that my kids played without me. But, they were fine and only sought me out if they needed someone to make a decision or to ask permission to use something.

All in all it was a lovely, boring day.

Soon though, I'll have to address all those dark thoughts lurking in my mind. Anyone reading this blog is aware of how unhappy I am with the direction my life is headed. I need to make changes but I procrastinate and refuse to address the issue. Why? *shrug* I don't know really. Maybe it's because there are certain aspects of my own character that have caused the massive fuckups recently; maybe it's because I hope the problems will go away on their own if I ignore them long enough. Or maybe I'm hoping to get a magic pill from one of my doctors that will make all the hurt, anger, pain and indecisiveness go away for good.

Or maybe I'm just lazy. I dunno. Right now I'm too tired to think on it (surprise).

I'll pick it up again in the morning.



One of the things I dislike the most about having a public journal/blog is the fact that I always hesitate before writing what's truly on my heart. In the back of my mind there is always the fear that someone, somewhere will judge me, take things out of context or criticize. That's part of the reason I stopped posting daily/weekly.

However, I feel that writing enhances my thought process and helps me deal with little issues here and there. So I've made a promise to myself to continue to write, to try and write daily because I miss it. And I miss its soothing effects on my person.

That said, I wish sometimes that I could simply stop emoting. It's one of those things I typically characterize as being distinctly feminine and I firmly believe that it's a weakness. I can't stand getting emotional about things that don't involve my children. That type of emotion, the maternal kind, is okay. I can deal with that. That overwhelming, all-consuming, powerful love, wistfulness and occasional sadness of parenthood. That, I can tolerate.

What I hate is the other emotions that come with day to day living and contact with other people. On this day, of all days, I hate being reminded of love. I hate feeling sorry for myself because, lo, I have no one to love me. The ultimate slap in the face was finding out my suspicions about my kids' father were true. He is seeing someone, it's serious and he's thinking about making her a permanent fixture in his life.

That is a good thing. I am happy for him. He's always been the type to need another person to feel complete. He's not entirely a bad guy so, yay for him. But... it bothered me. Not in the sense that I'm jealous of his girlfriend. God forbid. I don't love him, don't want him, thank God daily that I had the sense not to marry him. It's just... it's that he was the least likely person I thought would find a mate. It bothers me that everyone else can find a special someone, while I get other women's leftovers (i.e. married men).

That thought gave me serious pause. That pause caused considerable pain. Somewhere in that mid-chest region, around that foreign object I keep forgetting I have otherwise known as the heart. I did have to ask myself, why not me? What am I doing wrong that I cannot get a single decent man in my life? For a long time I've always thought I was single by choice... hm. Seems I'm not exactly choosing it anymore.

What's my problem?

Is it really me? Or is it them?

I was once told by a former friend that because of the way I carried myself and the way I spoke that I'd never be attractive to black men. I laughed her comments off at the time and called them ridiculous. Absurd. She claimed that I acted as if I didn't need a man and black men in particular need to feel needed. Plus I spoke "like a white girl" and that intimidated black men and intimated that I felt superior to them.

I still think that's a load of bullshit.

Fast forward to the early part of last year and I was just in casual conversation with a married lover and he commented that the type of man I sought would never be found (for the record I said I desired a man that was intelligent, stable and would love me for me. I think I may have put in a few minor particulars that I can't recall at the moment but those were the top things I sought...). I asked why; he responded that I intimidate men too much. Just by being me. He said the way I carried myself was with the attitude of "I don't need you". I said well, I don't need a man. And I still feel that way. I don't need a man to feel complete. But I'll come back to that statement in a minute. Mr. Married Friend stated that that was exactly the problem. He said a man needs to feel needed otherwise he figures why bother?

*cue chirping crickets*


So after that I went to another friend (another former lover but very close friend) and asked him the same questions... and I received the same fucking answers. What. The. Fuck. Seriously? I need to be practically desperate to pull a dude? A black man in particular? Getthafuckouttahere.

Look, I would love to have someone special in my life. I'd love to give every ounce of love I have in my cold, black little heart and have it reciprocated. In the relationships I've had in the past, all of which have been long standing, I was a great girlfriend. I was a great wife when I was married. This isn't just my opinion, all of my exes said the same thing. They really had no complaints and our relationships fizzled because of other reasons (like finding that one boyfriend was a psychotic, married, stalker or discovering that he wasn't man enough to handle responsibilities [that was baby daddy] or merely discovering that we were no longer suited for one another). So I really thought I was prime girlfriend material.

*cue the crickets again*

Evidently, I'm wrong.

As far as needing a man... please. I don't need a man. Yes, I'd like to have a good man but I won't be all miserable and on suicide watch (yeah, I've had some friends that were like that) just because I don't have someone with a three piece set at my side. Having a good man is like... It's like cooking a tried and true recipe and one day you add a different ingredient and it adds a whole new flavor to the dish. The dish was fine without the new ingredient, but better with the addition.

That's what I want. I don't feel incomplete. But I'd enjoy having an accompaniment.

Which brings me back to baby daddy and the new girlfriend. Again, I'm not jealous that she has him. Good Lawd she can take him (preferably far, far away from here... like Tanzania). I'm jealous that he gets the joys of the single life. That he can go out and date, whereas I'm either in the position of taking the kids with me or locating a sitter. He can go spend his money on himself. I spend my last dimes on the children. He can go out to places where singles congregate. I get the PTO and kiddie birthday parties. I think I'm more upset at the gross disparity in our lives than the actual outcome.

I wish... a lot more than I care to admit... I wish that I could devote more time on me. On cultivating my interests, maximizing my appearance, on being young and single. But I can't, or rather I can't seem to focus on that right now. Right now, as always, the focus is on the girls. And that's okay. That's my chosen lot in life and I enjoy it. But then natural feelings like the ones I'm experiencing now creep in and I start to resent things... people... my own children.

That's worrisome. I feel, as always, that I have the better part of the deal because I have the kids, I have all their experiences. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't experiencing burnout. That frightens me terribly. I don't like resenting my girls and I don't like not being able to fully enjoy them.

And truthfully, I'm not really sure how to deal with it or change it. I'm open to suggestions though.


And So It Ends...

Originally I was going to write about the passing of time, observing how my life has changed, has it changed for the better or worse, have I grown, etc.

Nope. Changed my mind.

Instead, I write about what's really on my mind. What I've really been wanting to write about despite fearing what others would think when they saw how I felt.

As anyone who reads this, or has ever read this or read my Blackplanet page, or anyone that even knows me at all... pretty much everyone knows how I feel towards relationships, men, marriage and the like. Recently there were a few that I thought would change how I felt; make me see the error of my ways and all that jazz. You know, make me see how fucking wrong I was about love, life, men and everything.


I've come to the conclusion that I am not relationship material. I simply am not. I can't deal with the emotions of the heart, the games of the mind, the bullshitty-ness of it. The fleeting happiness of being with another person just isn't enough to make it worthwhile in my opinion. Love fucking hurts like hell and I don't see why I should continue to subject myself to the pain like some sort of martyr.

Love isn't easy, relationships aren't easy. I know, I get it. It takes work. This time, like so many others I was willing to try. I was willing to make it work. I really thought I wouldn't get hurt, that I'd have this awesome ROI kinda thing going on... except...

Except that it didn't work out that way. Heart's broken. Again. FUCK.

I said it wouldn't happen.

I said I'd give myself those daily pep talks. The ones that state that I don't need a man/deserve the best/worth so much more. All lies. All bullshit. All dreams shot to shit.

AND I hurt. Fabulous.

So now what? Pick up the broken heart pieces and keep on looking? Dust myself off declare that this one little incident won't define me or deter me from future loves?

Nope. I plan to sit in the corner, lick my wounds and be a total bitch about it. I plan to be totally emo about it, channel my inner 14 year old girl and have a good cry. And once I've aired out my feelings and gotten past this fucking weakness, this sickness, then, I'll pick myself up, dust myself off and become that Ice Queen again.

Because after all, being the man hating, ball busting, bitchy Ice Queen doesn't get me hurt. I can cover my heart and all those weak emotions until there isn't even the smallest nugget of feeling left.

And I'll be just fine.

Just fucking fine.

I wasn't wrong in my initial assessment of men, relationships and marriage. There's nothing wrong with any of them in particular. They simply are not for me. Not at this moment in time. Perhaps not ever.

And that too, is just fucking fine.



I hate the county I live in with a passion.

I hate the barely disguised racism.

I hate the county administrators.

I hate the back hickwater asshats in charge around here.

I hate that you have to pay a membership fee for the priviledge to join the eletrical co-op when there is no choice in joining because they are the only electric supplier around.

I hate the fact that I have two separate water bills.

I hate that when I mail the bills, they mysteriously never make it to the payment office and if I pay in cash they don't give out receipts. I got a notice today that my water has been turned off. I called the office last week and spoke with a woman who told me my bill amount and the days to come pay it. I went in last Wednesday and paid. Today when I got the notice on my door that the water was off, I called, spoke with the same woman and she denied speaking to me last week or giving me any information. She stated that if I want my water back on I need to come pay the bill in full plus reconnection fees today before close of business. I don't have it. I won't have it until Friday.

I hate that for all the good in my life, there's so much shit that keeps fucking it up. Shit that's so bizarre and rare that if it happened to anyone else I'd laugh at the incredulousness of it all.

It just doesn't stop.


When I Was A Child, Part II...

When I was a child I loved video games. I mean they boggled my little mind. I can still remember the first time I played Pong, Donkey Kong (before he was named), Pacman, Double Dribble... man so many great Atari games. I used to sit silently at my best friend's side as we snuck behind her two older brothers' backs and played their Atari. I sucked at all the boy games like Double Dribble, although I vividly recall putting together an awesome team with my fav players, Dr. J and Larry Byrd among others and I kicked Kim's ass that one time. I kicked ass in Pacman too and for the longest time my dearest wish was to be tall enough to play the arcade version. The plight of the vertically challanged. To tide me over until I was tall enough, Santa brought me the arcade tabletop version of Pacman. Later Santa brought my daughter the tabletop version of Frogger... but my Pacman was better.

The wonderment of video games never ceased to amaze me. I wanted to know how that tiny machine could come up with so many variations that it seemed no sequence ever repeated. I never had an Atari of my own but when I got my very first Nintendo system I was ecstatic. I'd played one earlier that summer at a youth center my parents sent me to during the daytime so my dad could sleep uninterrupted (he worked at night). We were only permitted to play about 3 minutes at a time because there were so many kids but those three minutes were magical. When I got my very own for Christmas you'd have thought I died and went to heaven. I played for hours throughout Christmas vacation, often calling my friends on the phone and we'd play together and share secrets. I remember playing so often I'd dream about the game at night.

Those dreams were magical. I'd wake and the game that I'd played a million times before would always seem new again. I'd imagine what it was like to travel those weird, distant lands and how it would be if the game were ever made into a movie (and oh my hell didn't that Super Mario Bros. movie suck ass when it did come out?!). I never tired of the adventures even after I received a multitude of other games I still came back to my favorite Mario games. Although I wanted other systems, my parents never bought me another except for a gameboy for which I begged and pleaded. I used to borrow my boyfriend's Super Nintendos, Sega Genesis, etc. I'd actually prolong the breaking up process just so I could hold onto the games for a little longer.

One thing that few people know about me is that I STILL love video games, probably for the same childish reasons. I hate that what I grew up with is now considered "vintage". I still have my original Nintendo 8 bit that I received for Christmas all those years ago. Still have to blow into the cartridges and wiggle them a bit to get them to work, just like I did back then. I still don't have an Atari although I'm always on the lookout for an original; I refuse to buy the new/vintage model. I still want a Super Nintendo. I have a Sega Genesis, Nintendo 64, and Playstation 1 and 2. I have no interest for some reason in the Wii, nor the Xbox 360. Well, I've seen and heard nightmare stories about the Xbox and that was a turn-off. I also still have my original Gameboy somewhere, a gameboy color, and several Nintendo DS along with my favorite game: Super Mario Bros. DS. Quelle surprise!

And I still have my tabletop Pacman. I lost the back for the battery compartment decades ago but it still works with 4 C batteries and some duct tape.

Now, I'm rediscovering the playstation 2 games I used to love with a passion like the Tomb Raider and Mortal Kombat series. The father of my daughter's best friend gave me about 25 "adult" games that I've become enamored with of late. Currently, Jaalyn and I are playing Bully. I shouldn't have let her see me playing it but it's such a wickedly fun game.

Games are my refuge these days. My stress level is so high that I feel like not just giving up, but running away and never returning. There's nothing like a good ole violent video game to make you forget about your own troubles. And I find myself doing the same thing I did as a kid; dreaming about the games, wondering what it would be like if the game were reality. Some things never die I guess.


When I Was A Child...

When I was a child I was extremely shy and nervous. I could cry at the drop of a hat and shut it off just as quickly. I was so shy that I felt embarassed calling my father "dad" or "daddy" and always referenced him as "my father". Mom's coworkers used to openly tease me about this and frequently made fun of my speech. To them, it was unnatural for a black girl to speak like white people. They guessed that it came from the white private school. I hated to be the center of attention of mom's friends and the teasing had a profound effect on me that sticks to this very day. I still feel uncomfortable in the presence of blacks when my speech is like the whites.

When I was a child I used to cower in a dark closet in my room, eyes tightly shut, praying to God, Buddah, the spiders in the corner to please let my parents stop fighting. Please stop my father from hitting and beating my mother. Please stop my mother's screams and antagonizing. Sometimes it seemed like she wanted him to hit her. She'd goad him on with ridiculous taunts and smart remarks. When things became quiet I'd come out of my closet and lay on my bed feigning sleep so that neither of them would come close to me. I'd open my eyes when they left my room and stare up at my Rainbow Brite canopy and dream of running away. For years I kept a suitcase packed and ready along with a hand drawn map of where I'd run to. I figured I'd run to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts or maybe to my school which seemed just as big as the museum to me. I got the idea from reading the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I loved that book but hated the ending where Claudia and her brother went home. But like Claudia I began to save my money so that I could at least afford cab fare or bus fare to the museum. Once, I slipped out of the house and walked down the darkened street as my parents fought in the house. Amazing that nothing happened to me. I vaguely remember being worried about dangerous murdering men, the Briley brothers, because they frequented the house directly behind ours. But even then I knew that they didn't mess with little girls. I remember meeting one of the Briley brothers once; he was nice to me, said I was a pretty little girl. Funny, I hadn't thought about that in years. Anyway, that night I'd made it a good distance down the street before my conscious kicked in regarding my mother. What would happen to her if I weren't there to step in and stop my father? Would he blame her if I went missing? Probably. And then he'd take more anger out on her. I remember looking one way down the street into the darkness and looking back at my house... and I turned and went home. They never knew I was gone. And they were still fighting.

When I was a child I wanted to be a nun. The only thing that stopped me from taking up the vocation was that I knew my desire to be a mother was stronger than the desire to retreat into a cloister. But the idea of being a nun seemed safe. You were protected, fed, clothed and life was orderly. You knew exactly what you had to do, when to do it, and no matter what you were guaranteed that slot in heaven when you died. I craved the order, the quiet, the peace. I wanted to be taken care of and I didn't want to worry about bills being paid, being successful in life, dealing with boys/men. I wanted a life where it was expected for me to be subservient. Where my belongings would be so few that I would never have to worry about a mess again. Where it was impossible to fail at your mission in life. Pray, live, die. Perfect. The problem with becoming a nun? To my knowledge there were no black nuns. It wasn't talked of back then when the nuns tried recruiting and they ignored my queries. So, I kept that desire in my heart and swallowed my disappointment.

When I was a child and I learned about the Civil War and slavery I wondered what the former slaves thought just before they were freed and how they felt about freedom afterwards. Back then our history books didn't give us that information or any indication that there were slaves that actually prefered to remain captive. That there were some blacks that felt that slavery was right and natural and that there were some blacks that were too fearful of failure and indeed felt that freedom meant that they would in fact fail. As a child I sat and thought that perhaps slavery wasn't so bad if you got one of the good guys to be your master you know? To me it seemed to be not quite so bad because at least you knew what you had to do in order to survive. You worked, hard, but you were taken care of. You never had to worry about money or lack thereof; food; other vagaries of life. None of that mattered because you were kept too busy to be concerned with anything else. Happiness wasn't expected. You did what you had to do and then you died.

When I was a child I wished I could go back in time and live in any century other than now. Centuries ago lines were drawn, men were men, women were women and that was that. Men had roles and responsibilities and they did them. Women had their separate roles and responsibilities and they performed. They were subservient and allowed themselves to be cared for by the men. Despite my growing feelings for women's lib, this appealed to me. No worries. Worries fell on the man's head, not the woman's. God knows in my young world I had enough to worry about.

When I was a child I enjoyed nature so much. I loved playing with my best friend Kim next door but equally magical was those few afternoons that I had alone. It amazes me how quickly I'd forgotten those magical times. I had a ton of toys always. My father would buy me practically anything I wanted. I guess out of guilt but who knows. But on those days when I played alone, I didn't need the toys. I'd be happy with a stick and leaves, water and mud, and whatever else I could find outside. I'd been feeding stray cat, Kitty, and she stayed pregnant so there was always a litter of kittens around. There were spiders, crickets, and grasshoppers to catch; ants to watch as they marched on the sidewalk and up and down the tree trunks (later I'd find my magnifying glass and test that whole sun-frying-them-on-the-pavement theory.). Or I'd chew some gum and leave it's sugary goodness on the pavement and watch as they'd first converge and then stick in the middle of it. I'd study them and note how the first few fools got stuck and the others would come, look, and simply take a hunk of gum from the outer edge and retreat back to the anthill. They didn't care about fallen comrades, only survival. I'd make mud pies, or "fish" in the swollen clogged up gutters in the backyard, hunt for birds eggs, or my favorite springtime activity: sitting on the ground beneath the big japanese maple tree in the front yard and gazing up into the sky watching the squirrels, the clouds, airplanes, etc. I'd lie there and dream. I'd dream of flying, of my future, or escaping my life entirely. I'd think on how wonderful it would be to live in nature, in the wild, answering to no one, failing no one, dependant on no one... except yourself.

As an adult, I wish for that simplistic joy I had in nature. It's all but evaporated. The fear of failure still lingers... no, lingers isn't the right word... it's not strong enough to reflect the way I truly feel about it.

I fear failure. Not personal failure, just failing my kids. Which I suppose means that if I have a personal failure I do fail them as well.

I hate that.


It's That Time Again...

Time for colds and illnesses and viruses of every sort to filter into our lives and bring us crashing to our knees. Last week it was Jaalyn and she was only mildly hit with a sinus infection, a terrible bout of coughing and brief low-grade fever.

Two nights ago it was Trinity. 101 degree fever, coughing, diarrhea, sore throat. My heart aches to see her unwell. Times like this make me angry at her father, who hasn't called to even see how she's faring. There are times when he throws it in my face that I have the luxury of having the children all the time. As if it's all sunny and rosy and happy days. Well, there are those days, but then there are times like now when she's moaning in her sleep because the fever and virus are coursing through her body and giving her no peace. Times like now when I feel her forehead, temples and soles of her feet praying to God that her fever has broken. I try not to disturb her as I check her, disguising my probing with kisses, backrubs and stolen moments. In the night I wake constantly, nearly every hour, to check her, feel her, medicate her and beat her.

I don't mean beat her as in abuse. I have to beat her back as she takes her breathing treatments to break up the congestion in her lungs. To somehow force her to take bigger gulps of medicated air in hopes that this gunk in the lower left lumbar will dissipate.

You see, Trinity has pneumonia... again.

My mom thinks, well at least she's hinted that this is my fault. That somehow I've neglected to bundle the child up against the cold and wind and rain... that somehow I've failed both my kids. That's just my mom being her usual toxic self. I suppose in a way she's right though; I mean in the late night hours I wonder the same thing myself.



I'm healing in more ways than one.

Healing my body...

I just had surgery to repair an umbilical hernia. Over the years stress and pregnancy have created a cacophony of minor health issues here and there: cracks in my pelvic bone, slipped discs in my vertabrae, post partum depression, hi aortal hernias, etc.

One Saturday in September after a grueling day of shopping with the kids and being on my feet for 12 hours straight, pushing an umbrella stroller with a bockety wheel that I hate with my nearly 50 pound three year old in it, lifting, lugging, pushing, pulling. I came home sore. My entire body was wracked with pain and the area all around my belly was rock hard. It hurt to even stand upright, completely still. I could not lie down flat in bed. Sleep that night was impossible. All day that Sunday I "took it easy" (i.e. only doing laundry, breakfast, lunch and dinner for the kids) and that Monday I felt better but thought maybe I should go get checked out. Imagine my surprise when my doctor announced that I had a hernia the size of a small grapefruit and refused to allow me to leave his office. I was rushed to the nearest hospital to meet with a surgeon who yawned and said my doctor overreacted, that my hernia was only the size of, say, the opening of a soda bottle. Very little, was his description.

Still the solution was surgery, which was scheduled for the first week in October. An awful experience all around thanks in part to my parents, the anesthesiologist and some other memorable moments best forgotten. The surgeon had to eat crow and admit (after surgery) that my doctor had been right all along, the hernia was huge and required much more repair than he'd thought. It took a very large piece of mesh to repair the hernia and I had a nearly 6 inch gap between my abdominal muscles and he took it upon himself to repair them by fusing them back together.


Two days after surgery I came down with a horrendous sinus infection that swelled the entire left side of my face and caused the most wretched pain ever. Having no one to drive me to the doctor, I drove myself and after waiting a long time to see the doctor I promptly face-planted into the nearest wall as I attempted to walk back to the examination room. Did I mention my doctor's office is nearly an hour from my home? Scary ride back indeed.

Long story short (too late) I'm still recouperating from it all. I don't go back to work for another two weeks.

Healing emotions...

I think everyone has had a moment when they evaluate the friends they have and determine whether they truly are friends or simply fair weather friends. Single parents have or rather, should have support systems of friends and family that they can count on in any situation.

I do not have that. I don't think I've ever had it. During the preparations for my surgery and throughout all that happened after my surgery I am certain that I have perhaps three friends that I could possibly count on in an emergency. Everyone else... I just don't know.

I do know that the realization that the people I called friends are in fact not, cut me quite deeply. I can't really describe why. But I can say that my already diminished circle of pals is now definitely whittled down to a trio.


Healing spirits...

During September I had an epiphany. Suddenly, I knew "what I wanted to be when I grew up." I know the exact path I must take to obtain my goal, how long it will take, and I know I'll be successful. And as soon as all this was revealed to me a calm settled over me. I don't know. It's like I feel like I can dare to dream, to hope, to have goals once more. An absolutely weird feeling of peace has descended.


Healing heart and body...

Still working on this one. I think, for now anyway, that my problems in the lack-o-love department stem from *drumroll*, ME.

Profound, I know.

My self esteem and overall spirits have been abyssmal to say the least. My lack of confidence in my personal appearance destroys any confidence anyone else would have in me too. And the lack of confidence isn't from my weight or clothes or anything like that. It's my teeth. They are rotting in my head, well the few that I have left. I put everything before getting them fixed. It's costly and painful and my God I wish I could smile with confidence. I wish that this shit wasn't hereditary and I wish people would believe me when I say it's hereditary and not think that I'm bullshitting them. It's not because of a lack of dental hygiene; my parents, aunts and uncles on both sides of the family have the exact same issue. We're considered lucky if we can keep most of our own teeth without major intervention to the age of 40. I am 32 and oh hell, I'll be able to keep most of the bottom row but the top is just gone beyond hope. I hate my teeth and the troubles they bring. I am terrified of dentists to the point that I have to have a tranquilizer prior to seeing them otherwise I can't sit in the fucking chair in the waiting room let alone that monstrosity they examine you in. This fear stems from a long list of terrible, rough dentists over the years. (I once had a dentist who I would LOVE to name here that tried to remove a crown without anesthesia with pliers. I had blood running down my face and pooling in my neck and he said that I was behaving like a baby and that if I didn't stop screaming he'd REALLY hurt me. Rotten fucking bastard.)

Anyway, that's my big confession. The elephant in the room that everyone wants to talk about.

My teeth.



There have been lots of good times lately. And an equal amount of bad times. Despite this I am doing well. I stopped taking my prozac; I felt I didn’t need it and had no reason to rely on it. The doom and gloom and despair that had hung over me since giving birth to Trinity had lifted. I only occasionally felt that familiar feeling drape over me, usually when it was getting close to the time that my period arrives. So, completely normal, no?


Ulcers and hernias have returned with a vengeance. Most nights I don’t sleep because the pain and pressure keep me writhing. There is no comfortable position. There are no magic drugs. There is no magic cure.


It’s stress of course. What else could it be? Stress from the pressures of daily living. Keeping my head above the water, aka “debt”, fighting with the girls’ father, just… a lot. Writing used to be my outlet. I wish it worked so easily now as it did then. I’ll try to reinforce the habit again, not just for therapy, but because of my love for it.
Today, while shopping for groceries, I saw a man. I’d seen him in produce, bumped into him again in dairy. Big dude, beautiful brown skin, cap set back on his close cropped hair, triangle of a goatee. Tall. And big… I adore big men. Skinny men do nothing for me, but big men… ah. I love them. Bellies and all. There’s just something so sexy and attractive about the way they carry their weight, the way you can snuggle under their arms on the couch, and cushion your head on their massive chests when lying in bed.
Anyway, this guy was insanely sexy. I went across his path - because no one stands between me and my hazelnut coffee creamer - and he spoke to me. A deep “Hey… how you doin’?” I looked him in his brown eyes and said hi back, “I’m good and you?” and hoped he’d say more. You know, ask for my number or continue the conversation.

Nothing. I got my creamer, turned around and he was gone. Wow. Now there’s a blow to the ol’ ego. I continued to shop and chat with Trinity who was sitting in the front of the cart but my thoughts wandered. Why did he lose interest? Is it my teeth? Am I that ugly? Fat? I bet it’s because I’m fat. God, I’m such a fool to think anyone would ever be interested in me, fat as I am and ugly to boot. Why bother even coming out of the house? I should stick to my usual shopping areas, usual shopping times, midday when other moms are about, not paying anyone any mind except their bald, bawling babies in their cars eats in the cart…

For a while, I couldn’t stop myself from tearing my own esteem and confidence to shreds while simultaneously wondering what the fuck was wrong with me that I was visibly hurt and agonizing over this guy that previously hadn’t existed to me 15 minutes earlier. I mean, yeah, I normally do beat myself up, but not like that. But then it hit me:

My period… coming soon.
It’s things like what I wrote above that make me realize how lonely I truly am. I don’t feel I need a man to complete me and I don’t necessary want to be in a relationship. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a commitaphobe or whatever you call people that are terrified of anything deeper than a friendship. But there are times when I miss having someone around. Not necessarily men, because women… an entirely delectable subject altogether. But I miss having a man sometimes. The largeness of him, the scent of him, the heat that resonates from his body. The heady aromas of cologne mixed with the freshness of soap from his shower and wave grease in his hair. The sexiness of a thin necklace or bracelet resting on his skin. Gentle mustache hair tickling my neck as he nuzzles me. Huge, powerful hands that dwarf my own and that gently caress my body, possessing every crevice, gently resting on the curve of my hip. Kisses down my spine, my chin, my breasts and beyond.

Intellectual conversations, heated political debates, mutual appreciation of music and art, laughter and love, sensuality and sexuality all melting into…

Another birthday has come and gone for me. Another month or so where I sit and reflect on my life, now, past and future. I don’t regret the past. Ever. I’m not anxious for the future either. Too many shattered hopes and dreams. I don’t dare dream again. I have no hopes. I exist, here, now.

But then I think of my children. How my every waking breath is for them. Every blessed moment. Every dime I make, step I take, decision, everything is all for them. Have I lost me? Probably. At this point I think I am too far gone to find me.

But there is something about birthdays that makes you realize how much or little you mean to those of value in your life. And with each passing year my heart grows a little colder with the knowledge that I don’t mean shit to friends. It’s not that I expect parties or gifts or money. Just simple acknowledgement. You see, for others, my friends, family… whoever. I make an effort to let them know that they matter. To me, to everyone. And I don’t always do it in a way that’s best reflected through money. I take the time to figure out what would be most pleasing to that particular person and find ways to express congratulations, happiness, whatever to them. For one girlfriend who was celebrating a birthday at a time that I had very little money I found a couple of books by her favorite author at a bookstore on clearance and I got her a card. Inside that card I enclosed a brief letter of encouragement because she (like me) is always putting herself down and never realizing how truly valuable she is as a person and a friend. It made her cry. That was years ago and she tells me that even now when she’s feeling down she pulls out that letter and it makes her cry all over again and see herself in a different light. That same friend was the only person to really make me feel special this year on my birthday. No one else bothered. No one else cared.

First time in 32 years that I didn’t have so much as a cake for my birthday.
I’m not trying to whine. Really. I’ve got problems but my issues are minor compared to so many others. I realize that. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing a little and wanting just a little bit more happiness in my life. I wish to God that I didn’t have to take prozac even occasionally. I wish I weren’t so afraid to dream. I wish I had someone to hold me tight (if only for one night, heh). I wish that someone would understand that sometimes it’s so fucking hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other and that you do it because you don’t know what else to do. Not because you want to or have to.

Because you just don’t know anything different.




I'm still here.

Still hanging in there.


Not as depressed... Yeah, scary right? Been a long ass time since I've not written about depression, depressing thoughts, oh-my-God/oh-woe-is-me shit.

I'm actually feeling pretty good on the regular now. And it's not due to medication either because it's rare that I remember to take it. I dunno. Maybe God shined His benevolent light on me. Maybe I'm too busy with other activities to even become depressed. Maybe, just maybe, I just got sick and tired of it and said No More.

Let's go with that last one.

I'm on a healing road to wellness. I'm gonna try and drop some weight for real and get out some aggression at the YMCA. I'm back in school and I'm really enjoying my classes. I decided to double major in History and Psychology and I have a renewed interest in my classes. I'm not going to school for my job, I'm going to school for ME. The fact that it'll likely help get me promoted on the job is just an afterthought. I'm obsessed with my grades and thus far I've been maintaining a *drumroll* 4.0 GPA.

The girls are happy and healthy and spoiled fucking rotten. Jaalyn has gotten straight As on every single report card that's come home and is sailing right along into the 3rd grade this August. She's a dork like her mother and has requested that I purchase her third grade textbooks on Ebay so she can study them over the summer and be ahead when she goes back to school.

Trinity will be 3 this coming Sunday. Unfuckingbelievable. Time flies.

I've gone on a... um.. how to put this? Well, I've gone on a sex strike. No more sex with married men, period. No more convenience sex. I really just got fed up with getting short changed. I deserve better. Those dude's wives deserve better. Not every man out here is a lying, cheating sack of shit. It's just that all the dudes I ever come into contact with are lying, cheating sacks of shit. Some day, one day I'll meet my guy. Hell, I may even meet my gal. I'll probably write more about this another time. Right now I just can't get my words together to describe the hows and whys of why I did what I did. All I can say is that I've never felt better about any decision I've made recently than I did that one.

I have really decided to try and focus a little bit more on me. The girls take most of my energies and so does my dad. But I've been trying to take time out each month to do things that I alone enjoy. Tours with the history museum, visiting other museums, bookshops, festivals, etc. I'm going to try and mingle more not with the intention of finding a mate, but simply to enjoy other people's company and learn more. There's a vast world out there for me to explore and so far all I've discovered is a sliver. So my interest in other things has overshadowed that awful depressing feeling I had. I still have some bad days but they are far less frequent than before. I still have a lot of personal issues to work out, but things will fall into place in time.

My mom is still bat shit crazy, still annoying as fuck, still doing her best to keep my spirits low and keep me under her thumb. I turn a deaf ear to her, write in my journal in my purse and keep it moving. I will not let her get me down. It's a crabs in a barrel thing with her I think. Then again maybe she's just a mean hateful woman that's become bitter in her not quite old age.

My dad still worries me. He lives with me full time now and yeah I do feel cramped and smothered sometimes but I feel it's for the best. Deep in his heart I think he thinks so too. He's come to rely on me to provide happiness for him and I just cannot do that. He's depressed, I was depressed you can imagine what kind of household this was. But... I've gotten him a membership to the local YMCA as well so hopefully he'll take advantage of it and maybe even meet a nice lady there. He needs to feel loved and appreciated just like any other person and he needs someone to kick him in the ass and get him back on the road to happiness. I'm just not that person and it took a lot for me to realize that.

But all in all, things are lookin' up.

Just taking it day-by-beautiful-day.