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8.30.2009

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.

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