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.

Healing...

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.

Ouch.

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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

Yo-yo-ing...

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?

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.

*sigh*

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.
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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.
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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…

Him.
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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.
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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.

Untitled...

Updating...

I'm still here.

Still hanging in there.

But...

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.

Repetition...

I am honestly sick and tired of writing about depression. I feel that there's nothing more that I could possibly write about it. I wish it would go away but it never does. At least, it doesn't go away for very long before something triggers its inevitable return.

If I'm not depressed about money (and it's usually money), then I'm depressed about my weight. If not my weight, then life in general. If not life in general, it's back to money issues. Ugh, so many fucking money issues. Always. I work to live, live to work and it's like there is nothing in between except this irritating factor called consciousness.

I hate money. I hate not having it. I even hate having it because I never have enough of it to do the things I need to do. And I don't want to do extravagant things. I just want to pay my fucking bills. I don't want to live above my means, I just want to live period. In this economy I am extremely thankful for my job. I'm lucky and blessed and I know it. But damn damn damn it's still fucking hard to make ends meet. I give and I give and I swear I can't give anymore. Morning, noon and night I sit and worry and fret. The worry causes me to eat, which causes me to gain weight, which further sinks me into the abyss of depression and self loathing.

I'm sick of it all. I'm at the point (again) where no mom should ever tread. The point where you really give serious thought to giving up your kids to someone else in hopes that they can do a better job than you can in providing for them. I just don't know what to do anymore. I'm so tired of weeping, waking with sore and swollen eyes and telling everyone "Oh it's just allergies." Bullshit. I'm knocking my head against a brick wall trying my damnedest to find a way around it, under it, over it, ANYWHERE but where I am now.

I just don't know what else I can do.

And then I think of people like the Spohrs and GB and I look at my kids and wonder how blessed I am, that I shouldn't complain, I shouldn't be ungrateful, that I'd give up a week, month, year of my life if it meant those two families could have that much more time with their precious babies. I look at my two and think that I have to do this, I have no choice, they deserve a mom that can do the best that she can to better their lives.

But sometimes I feel I just can't do it. I feel helpless and hopeless. Always. No amount of Prozac takes away the feeling. And truthfully, something that I'll admit here and nowhere else... I'm developing a habit with the pills. Oh not the prozac, that does nothing really. But combined with percocet, oxycontin, hydrocodone, codeine, anything else it numbs me so that I can't really focus on my problems. It gives me dreamless sleep and peace of mind. I don't overdose, up my dose, combine or anything like that. If I feel that one drug loses it's effect I'll go off it for a week, two and try something different afterwards. Guess it's no worse than people that smoke weed to put themselves in another place and forget their problems. I could never understand why people got high.

Now I do. And I hate that I understand so fucking well.

Humbled...

I was all set to write about my sorrows. Bitch about my weight, the ills of life, woe is me...

And then...

I read this...

Which led me to this...

After which I read this, this, and this...

And by the time I sat down and viewed this I was in tears...

Nothing matters anymore. All the shit I would've complained about and whined about; all the injustices and things weighing heavy on my heart... none of it matters. My heart could explode for all the sadness I feel for these two families.

I sat and I stared at my two beautiful blessings and thought of how crushed I would be if... if... if the unthinkable happened. Never to stroke their hair again, breathe in their lovely scents, hear their laughter, feel their hugs.

My God.

We Interrupt This Brief Moment Of Optimism...

I'm bringing negativity back.

I can't help it. It's like everything in the cosmos is against me. I just don't understand it. When tough times hit I just ride the waves through it all because I know the trial(s) are only temporary, it could be worse, etc. But a large part of me looks at things on a spiritual level and I'm just like oh my God what the hell do you have against me?

There's a running joke among us religious cynics that the quickest path to a miserable life is to become a Christian. Because the better you are as a person the worse your life becomes, hence the term Christian Martyr. I was taught, just like everyone else that you do unto other as you would have them do unto you; You reap what you sow; God honors the good and despises the bad.

I just don't get it.

I Resolve...

Doesn't the whole idea of making resolutions for the new year just suck? It's like some sadistic form of setting yourself up in advance for failure and disappointment for the next 365 days.

Resolution #1: Be more positive

Yeah, so, um... 2008 wasn't exactly the year of sunshine and rainbows for me. My overall attitude stunk and I hated that. My friends hated it. My mother hated it (but I didn't and still don't care). I used to be the one with the positive outlook. Actually, I still am when it comes to other people. For my own situations it's been straight pessimism and that should stop. I have always treated others better than myself.

It's time for fair treatment. I can and will be more optimistic, more positive but I absolutely refuse to be fucking chipper.

Resolution #2: Be Patient

Again, normally I am patient. Times of stress bring out the absolute worst in me. The kids wear on my already frayed nerves and I morph into a shrieking demon of terror. Even as the words spew from my lips I'm shocked at my own tone of voice. Every parent has days like that, I know. But my days are becoming more frequent.

Patience also isn't my strong suit when setting/achieving goals either. I want things done right now. I do not want to wait. I do not want others to "help" me. I want what I want when I want it right. NOW.

Case in point: I'd like a companion, male or female, in my life. Now. But it's just not happening. And upon reflection... that's most likely a good thing.

Resolution #3: Humor

My mother once remarked that the most unusual things seem to happen only to me and she sardonically suggested I write a book about it. Well, she's right (please don't tell her I said so because I will never hear the end of it). The thing is instead of taking the negative approach to it, I ought to highlight the humor of the situation the way I've normally done in the past.

Exhibit A: Disasterous holidays are a habit for me. Dinners I prepare for holiday meals are no exception. Let the record show that under normal circumstances I am a good cook. However, three year or so ago on Thanksgiving day disaster struck. Water would not flow to the kitchen sink (for the life of me I can't remember what happened to cause that), so all water for boiling potatoes, washing hands, dishes, meats, etc had to come from the bathroom sink or tub; the ceiling in the kitchen just to the right of the sink exploded from a water leak that I'd been complaining about to maintenance for about three months but they refused to admit was there despite this growing bubble in my kitchen ceiling. So, heh, I guess that is what caused the pressure to go kaput in the kitchen sink. Add to that mess that I blew up the ham. That's right. Blew it to bits. No idea how it happened or why it happened. I remember using one of those baking bags that I'd used hundreds of time before. Cut slits in the bag, flour it, insert ham and tie it loosely. Blam. Now granted I was upset. But the entire situation was so damned funny. I mean who blows up a ham?!

And this Christmas... sigh. Really, I blame the turkey. The bird was cursed from the start. My mom, the woman that grosses like 70k a year took not one but FIVE turkeys from a local church that was giving them away to the poor. I was appalled and disgusted as were the people she gave the turkeys to. I may be struggling financially but I would never, ever take food from the needy. As a matter of fact despite it all I regularly toss extra non-perishable items into my grocery cart to donate to the Daughters of Charity so that they can distribute it to those less fortunate. So when mom showed up glowing at the thought of pilfering 5 frozen birds to give to herself and a few family members I was upset but figured eh, she thinks she's doing good so I'll cook it anyway.

Ladies and gentleman, the turkey caught fire.

Twice.

I have no idea how it happened. Turkey is supposed to be the leanest meat next to fish right? Evidently the bird was a fatty one and the drippings rolled off the foil tent and onto the burners below the rack. The second time the bird caught fire I got pissed off, turned off the oven, put out the flames, aired out the house, beat the ever-loving-crap out of the smoke detector, and let the bitch sit in the oven overnight. I was so mad I couldn't even bear to take it out. The next day I tossed it into the garbage and went to Food Lion and bought another. It turned out beautifully. Best bird I've baked in a long time. It was so lovely I wanted to take a picture of it.

But still... how the hell?

Resolution #4: Take out the trash

Literally and figuratively. I want the negatives out of my life. That means negative thoughts, negative actions and negative people. I've made this resolution before and I did gain ground a little bit in 08. This year I plan to purge big time.

And all this clutter and bullshit in the house? Going. Out. NOW.

Resolution #5: Make Me Over

Not only do I need a character makeover, I need a physical one too. I need to lose weight, eat healthier, become more active and have some pride in my appearance. With that pride comes confidence which has been a stranger of late.

I have a 5 month short term goal to get into physical shape. I plan to race and complete the Susan G Komen Race For The Cure on May 9th of this year. I've lost relatives to breast cancer and a close friend has been battling it for about two years now. I can... I WILL do this.

If you are in the area, join me. We can huff and puff together for the cause.

And... I've got to fix lunch for the kids so I'll continue this later.