tie your mother down. well, mine, anyway

I’m going to buy a nice little travel trailer for my son and his gf to live in up here. We’ll share the house, too, but I’d like them to be self contained. When Exish and I were young, his did had a travel trailer that he used as a guest room. It was so romantic. I loved it. The meth heads stole it a few years ago. We found out from Google Earth of all things.

I think a travel trailer would be a nice little love nest and a great environment for him to continue to pare down his intoxicant intake. In the last five to six years, he’s stopped hard drugs, finally quit pot, moved to only drinking, something h


appened earlier in the week that has him off hard liquor, now he’s down to beer only. He has a case of arrested development that is typical for people who started drinking and drugging early in life, but he’s making progress. He’s accepting his responsibility for the first time and even making amends and acknowledging the damage he did to the family. I never thought these days would come. It’s like a miracle to me, though it happens millions of times over, all over the world, as people who are sick from dope and booze and life, open their eyes for the first time and realize that life is not only about them. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s as though they are being born again, seeing the world through new eyes. For many, it’s too much, and they go back to what they know. You just can’t fight dope for them, though. It always wins. But, when they’re done with it, and they are ready to live again…oh, my God…there is nothing more amazingly beautiful. They are like babies again. New. Brand new. I love that.

I told my mother what I’d decided. For one thing, I wouldn’t be tied down here and could help her during busy times at the shop. She took that to mean that, if having Jay up here was a failure, and she was certain it would be, that I’d blame her. Holy fucking shit! I lost it. Totally. I told her to get back to me when she could name ONE thing I EVER blamed her for. One. And she knew what I meant by that. Because she dumped my infant ass with people she actually hated because of the abuse she suffered at their hands as a child. So that’s who she leaves me with? Great idea, Mom!

After Mother and I reconciled, when I was 19 or 20, I quickly realized she was too emotionally fragile to accept responsibility for her actions. So, I led the way in blaming the people she already hated and deflecting all negatives from her to them. I figured I could bear the pain of it all better than she could. At the time, I was right. But, over the years, the things that were meant to deflect responsibility have become truths to her. That’s fine with me. But she is actually the one who bears the brunt of the responsibility for leaving me in their hands. She left me over and over, because she was still part of the family and I had to call her my sister. My own fucking mother. I called her Lil Sister. How fucked up is that? It would have been so much easier had she parted company with the family, because every time she’d leave I’d wonder why she never took me with her. Till one day, she came over during one of Dad and Grandmother’s huge fights. He was so angry that he was even throwing my things out in the back yard. He never did that. Grandmother was throwing the good china at the wall and breaking it. I was trying to stay out of the way. I think I’m was about four, maybe three, then. I know that I was small enough that I had to stand on my tippy toes to watch my mother leave. She literally walked in, saw the fight and walked back out. So, I ran to the entry way window and watched on my tippy toes as she got into the car with her newest husband. There was something about that car door closing that closed something in me. I knew, from that point on, that she would never claim me. I was no longer her daughter after that day. Done deal.

Even now, I hear that door slam clear as a bell. I feel the let down followed by the feeling of a heart that began to harden. I watched the car as long as I could, before it disappeared around the corner, then I went back into the fray, begging Dad to kill Grandmother and staying out of the way. I never told Mom that story. I never told her anything. Once we reconciled, I let her think that she may as well have dropped me off at Disneyland, because I was so happy and things were so nice.

I had to stop working two years ago, almost. Nerve damage and such prevents me from doing certain things. Fibromyalgia is what doc calls it, but it’s a bucket term for symptoms they can’t seem to fix. In any case, it wears on me that my mother is still working. I thought that, if Jay were here, I could be free to help her out during busy times at the shop. Yes, it hurts like a motherfucker to hold the clippers, but now and then I could manage it. And I could go down and help with my dad and clean house for her…just do things I can to make life a little easier for her. That’s honestly all that is in my heart. I never once thought that I could use that to blame her if things went South where Jay is concerned. I let him know I can’t afford their upkeep, but I could get them something they’d like to live it. It’s just simple shit. And, I do need help with this place. I live on four acres. Plus, the land out back needs to be tended to. Poachers are a problem and things like that. The road needs to be kept cleared…there are a million things he could help out with. We have a huge shop that they could put a pool table in or anything they wanted. He could play his guitar as loud as he’d like with nobody to complain. Lots of upside. The only downside would be if he refused to work. But he’s changed a lot where that’s concerned and is eager to follow in his father’s footsteps. That has become very important to him. He wants to be a turnaround hand, so he’d be working long hard, very well paid, hours during certain times of the year, then have lots of time off to enjoy life. Plus, I’d have a friend here. I love his gf. She’s ten years his senior and is a great gal who has been through some very deep shit in her day. She’s ready to settle down and has already done so. But, if it goes South, they will have to leave. I’m not buying groceries or cigs for them. I’m just giving them a fresh start that will also help me. But my mother doesn’t figure into this in any way.

She really hurt my feelings today. One thing people can’t say about me is that I don’t take responsibility for my own actions. I do. And always have. I spend a lot of time cleaning up other people’s messes for them…old habits die hard. But I don’t ever blame anyone else for my life. Even if they fucking deserve it. I believe things happen for a reason, so my lot in life, however it came about, is mine. I’ll take that. I’ll own whatever comes of it. Because I’m not afraid to be wrong or puffed up and proud when I’m right. I’m right in the middle, where I should be. So she can fucking suck it. And that’s all I can say about that.

free thought ramblilng


I’m missing something, inside. It’s something that was never really there, but having him in my life made me feel as though it was. The pain he caused made my insides feel full…bursting at the seems at all times. I was an emotional Roman alone in my vomitorium, awaiting the next course.

Tonight, I feel the vacuous me that I am. Neither drug, nor drink can stir any emotion but dread. The dread one might feel as they stand at cliff’s edge, wondering if someone might come along and give them a push. Because that’s all I need. I need push. A reason. The lightest tap will do.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought he’d die. I wished it, begged God for it…There were many times that I was close to dispatching him, myself. The love his sons had for him saved his sorry ass. I think that’s part of why I feel like I do. I am shocked that I didn’t kill him. Is that bad? I don’t know anymore. I honestly don’t. He always said I was a sociopath. If I were, he’d have been gone long ago. I’m only a woman who has lived with a fucking pain machine for three decades. That’s all. I. Am. Only. A. Woman.

I feel as though I’m dying, too. I can feel the cold of the Darkness inside of me. It’s all consuming, and something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Even as a child, it was there. I was a child living in a world of degenerates. Every minute of spare time was spent tagging along from one bar to the next with my grandparents, who raised me. It isn’t easy for a girl child in those circumstances. My Darkness saved me. It allowed me to recognize the Darkness in others and, knowing mine was always stronger, as my grandmother taught me, I was able to deal with them. These disgusting men with their wandering eyes…hands…stealing kisses from a child. Disgusting maggots. I wish I’d had the ability to kill every, single, one. I never told my dad because I knew that he WOULD kill them. My grandmother knew, but did nothing about it. I quickly learned the art of being frozen in a smile. I was a mimic; a puppet with no emotion of her own, only that which she adopted from others.

I don’t understand how his death has brought these things up in my mind and heart. I don’t allow these thoughts in my world. They are lighting in a storm, already raging. Perhaps it’s because I have never had a moment on my own. Truly on my own. I went from home to being a wife, mother, reconciled with my own mother…the list is long. Maybe the pain was good for me because it occupied my mind. And there was love. There were good times. Great times, even. But things didn’t end well between he and I. And, the second he was gone, I felt it…the Darkness at my shoulder. Within a week, the memories came to the forefront, tired of their home in the recesses of my brain, I suppose. They seem to have mixed quite well with the guilt and sorrow and grief. I feel like a playground for devils and fallen angels. Overrun and pushed around. Yet, I know that nothing they do can compare to the damage I can do to myself, of my own free will.

I’m tired now. Meds are finally beginning to do their job. I hope to sleep tonight. I hope he stays put and leaves me alone. I want him to go on to wherever he is supposed to be and leave me be. I want to close my eyes and see nothing but blackness. No faces. Not his, not anyone’s. I just want to be left alone to figure out who I’m supposed to be. It has to happen soon, or I’ll cease to be.

Hey, Man, Don’t Be A Dickass!


…ya dickass.

I truly enjoy intelligent people. I admire them. When I encounter one, it is quite often that I will focus on them as though they were a firefly in a jar. BUT, when that person mistakes my admiration for ineptitude, or assigns my interest to me being intellectually stunted in some way, (as though I am looking to them to save me from my Gumpesque mentality), I lose my fucking mind.

Such was the case of an interaction between me and a rather smart friend of mine this afternoon. Do I think that he is smarter than I am? Absolutely not. Do I believe him to be smarter than the average? Certainly. However, his arrogance is what I find most fascinating. For endless hours, I have listened to and picked the brain of this individual, waiting for some sign that his ego was not the source of his ‘love’ of knowledge. Unfortunately, that did not prove to be the case and, this very afternoon, he went too far.

It isn’t every day that my brain is highly functioning. More recently, those days are fewer and farther between. I admit that I give off the impression that I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree. Most days, you’d be right in that assessment. But not today. Therefore, as my friend droned on ceaselessly about this subject and that, I realized that he was trying to make me look stupid on purpose. That sounds crazy, I know. But, I tested my theory and was proven right time and again. The man delighted in the thought that he was superior to me intellectually. In fact, he threw around the word ‘intellect’ as though it were a magic key to something life altering. Oh, lordy…

I tried to keep my mouth shut for as long as humanly possible. But, finally, the time came when I could take it no longer and, having realized that I was having a high functioning brain day, (YES, that is an actual thing! Because I said so, that’s why.), I let loose a bit of my own intellectual prowess. Which, though unconventional, is so far superior to this person’s that I cannot even explain it, lest I begin to speak in tongues. lol! Yes, the difference between us is THAT great. I’m not saying that I’m a genius. I am saying that I am simply far smarter than this particular person, when I am firing on all cylinders.

When I first began challenging him, he was a bit put off by it. Then, irritated. Then, he turned into a human dictionary and whipped out every five dollar word he knew on me. It was like he had some sort of ‘I’m smarter than you’ Tourette’s situation going on. I thought that he might actually have a stroke at one point. He was so flustered that he could not sway me, nor find an argument to subvert my own, that he was literally spitting mad. And I could not stop grinning. lol!!!!

Really, the only major difference between us, is that I never make assumptions when I’m arguing a point with someone. Never. Because this is a vast world we live in, full of people with life experiences you or I may not be able to fathom. Why would you simply look at someone and assume anything? Or judge them by their upbringing?

This man actually said that he assumed I was inferior intellectually due to the fact that I am simply a product of my environment, through no fault of my own. He went on to say that I should not feel bad about myself, nor be angry that I could not comprehend his interpretation of the subject matter of which we were speaking. This man who believes that his wife is powerful because she is the head of the BBB in their small town, spent the better part of his afternoon explaining to me what power was. Power, to him, is manipulation of the small minded by other small minded people. There is no true meaning to it, no real agenda, no end. To him, power is a fun game you play, as you flex your faux intellect and financial prowess in the presence of those even more small minded than yourself. In his world, power begins and ends with your own ego. I observed that he seemed to be a slave to his ego, which was quite disturbing, as I had not really taken notice of that before today.

As I listened, I remembered people I have had the pleasure of knowing in my lifetime, particularly, Pablo Acosta, who was a man who could have someone killed with a nod of his head. Someone else would kill FOR him, simply because he told them to. In my book, THAT is power. Pablo was also a man who would take the fruits of that poison tree of his and spread it all around to the betterment of the poor, especially children. So, you see why my friend and I could not come to a meeting of the minds. I never mentioned Pablo because I felt that this man did not deserve to know of such an amazingly loving, joyful and truly powerful, albeit fundamentally evil, man. Honestly, I think that my friend’s ego would swallow Pablo’s and still be ravenous.

Where I grew up, Pablo Acosta was one of many beloved local characters that had true power, as I perceive it. I don’t recall one of them who was a member of the BBB. lol!!! I also don’t recall any who felt the need to shout from the rooftops that they were superior in any way. They knew who and what they were and were content to abide in that ‘home’.

Per the norm, I am way off course here. It’s just that I hate smug and arrogant people. I want to choke them. Till they turn blue and their eyes bug out a little, then let them go, but not before I explain what just happened to them so they understand why they should not be such dickasses.

Maybe it’s me. Perhaps there is a bit of an inferiority complex that comes from not pursuing higher education. But, I tend to think that I just don’t like dickasses…LOL!

Grandmother’s Birthday


My grandmother would have been 87 years old today. Fortunately, she passed on the eve of my 30th birthday. Twenty five minutes prior, to be exact. I honestly believe that she was trying to hang on so that she could die on my birthday, just to make sure that I’d remember her. As though I could ever forget. Her.

I don’t feel good about saying bad things about my grandmother. But I don’t think this day can pass without some observation concerning the impact that her abuse had on my life. In my mind, even now, she is almost demonic. I have yet to meet another human being who is as treacherous and cruel as she was. Yet, in both of those things, she was brilliant, really. It takes a lot to manipulate so many people in the way that she did.

For reasons that I don’t want to think about, my grandparents ended up raising me from infancy. My mother was still in my life, and I knew that she was my mother, even though, as soon as I could speak, Grandmother had me calling my own mother ‘Lil Sister’. Still, I just knew that Lil Sister was my mommy and she was going to make things right and stop running off and leaving me the way she did. But, that wasn’t to be. I recall the day that I knew my mother was never going to take me home with her again…the day that I knew she’d no longer be my mother and that it was time to stop missing her. I was four years old. On that day, I stopped the silly fantasies of a small child and no longer allowed myself to dream that my mother could, or would, ever love me.

The available alternative to Mother was my grandmother. She was addicted to pills and her own ego. The woman was built like a brick shithouse, but she behaved like a blow-up doll that had come to life. She tormented my grandfather, who was my hero, and he, in turn, tormented her. Although I never saw him lay a hand on her, I’d beg him to kill her when they’d fight, which was often. Even at my earliest memory, I was aware that death would be the only thing to make her stop what she was doing to me. As it turned out, so many years later, that was still true.

In any case, I hope that I can someday remember something good about the woman. She was beautiful. I suppose that’s a good thing. Except that she used her beauty as a weapon, of sorts. And I know she rescued animals. There was always some strange creature being cared for at our house. And stray children. She did take in children that needed help. She’d shower them with love, but she withheld it from me. She beat me every chance she got. And she cursed me with these odd bits of mumbo jumbo. I found it comical even when I was little. (I was on to her bullshit from a very early age). I tend to think that it was because I looked so much like my mother or something…that she’d beat me. It had to be something like that. There had to be a reason. Who knows? I just always spend this day, year after year, trying to think of something really good in her…a memory to grab onto. I’ve yet to think of what that memory might be. Perhaps that makes me a bad person, too. I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

I won’t say that I suffer ill effects from the abuse she imposed upon me. It did not make me a monster. I did not visit that on the heads of my boys, and they are good people. The things she did have always served as a guideline as to what not to do…how not to live. Maybe I should be grateful for that. I am grateful that my mother and I have been able to, not only reconcile, but flourish as mother and daughter and best of friends. We share a pain that never quite leaves us, but has been rendered powerless in our lives. That’s a miracle. To me, anyway. And, in many ways, my grandmother made me stronger. To her immense disappointment, I was always stronger than her, even when I was small.

I found a letter many years ago that my grandmother had written to my uncle when he was in the Navy. I was two years old when it was written. She complained that, no matter how many times she’d say ‘no’, I’d say ‘yes’ that many times, and one more. She said I was the most cussid child she had ever known and that I was very difficult to love. I kept the letter. It’s in an old box, somewhere. Now and then I run across it and, for some reason, I always laugh. I’m laughing now, just thinking about it. Because I’m the type of person, so many decades later who, when she’s told ‘no’, she will say ‘yes’ that many times, and one more. Defiant? Maybe. Determined? Absolutely. Strong? Till the bitter end. So…thanks for that, Grandmother, and a very happy birthday to you!


I’m so totally dying today. Shit! Like Grandma always said: ‘Pain fucking hurts.’ I’m waiting to pick up my pain meds. They ran out and will be getting them in from…Mexico?…shortly. If there weren’t so many fucking pill mills around here with fake-ass patients, there would be no shortage. But, since the DEA has decided to stick it’s fucking head in the mix, coupled with all those junkies, people like me have to wait. It just makes me mad enough to throat punch someone. Okay..I’ve never actually punched anyone in the throat, but I think it’s called for in this instance.

Oldest and his Yankee bride are moving back to Texas. They’ll be living back home and I’ll be able to go see them when I want to. OR, whenever that bitch on wheels allows me to see my own fucking son. OMG. She’s such a bitch. I mean…pure bitch. She’s maybe five feet tall with giant boobs, (which is how she manages to keep my son in this strange, tonic state), she marches around like a general and she is a Wiccan who thinks she can put spells on me. LOL! Oh, baby…please! For some reason, she doesn’t like me. I’ve tried to make whatever it is right, but nothing works. However, being the wonderful mother I am, if my son loves her, I love her. Period. Damn it all to Hell…

Oldest has been letting Youngest drive his since he moved to Transylvania…I mean…Pennsylvania last year. Smooth move, Oldest! Youngest ran it into a ditch between to sign poles and dented it up pretty good. A few months later, he got in a fight in a bar parking lot, got his head smashed into the back panel, then the guy went to hit him and he moved, so there’s a huge dent with knuckle dents in it. He’s had the car airborne…in flood water…you name it. Exish and I have spent two grand on tires and new catalytic converters, etc. The point is that I don’t want to hear Oldest bitching about his car. It is an old car, but it was in pristine condition when he left. You looked at it and it was just mind blowing how perfect it was. Super nice car. Now…super used car. But, Oldest should’ve known better and that will be my final answer when I get the call, and I will, about what Youngest did to his car. Fuck it.

I guess I’m gonna go and see if my meds are ready. I can’t wait to get back here and catch up on my reading! I hate trying to read and post on a cell phone. Anyway…later, taters!


This is what I refer to as a ‘pain day’. Every inch of my body aches. I woke up exhausted and that hasn’t changed. I get tired of living with chronic pain, just as anyone else who lives with it does. No matter what you do, it’s always there. No amount of pills or exercises or hot showers will change it.

Today, arms and hands are on fire. The rest of my body, head to toe, is a dull ache, punctuated by the surprising sharp pain here and there. I’m sleepy to the point of being a zombie. I don’t take naps, though. I keep thinking that, if I just don’t take naps…don’t give in, it’s all going to go away one day. (I swear, I keep Vivarin in business). Sometimes, I allow myself to consider the truth…that this is permanent. . Hands shake, fingers won’t go where they’re told. It takes forever to type anything these days. I’m definitely ‘back’ button addicted. The headaches, memory issues and general feeling of being a fucking doorstop are making me crazy.

I got a lot done, so far, today. For me. I’m decorating my bedroom. What I used to do in a few hours now takes a few days. And that’s if I stay on top of it. I feel embarrassed by it. Because I am nothing like I used to be. It’s frustrating to try and reconnect with that person. She has long since abandoned the situation…and me. Still, I close my eyes and try to picture places I’ve lived in the past. Especially my old house. I try to recreate the look and feel of the place. It’s not the same, though. It just isn’t. But, all in all, it’s a reasonable facsimile, I suppose.

I think that’s all I want…to have my life back. I think that’s what all this slave crap is about and all the other bullshit I’ve been thinking and doing lately. But I’ll never be the same. I can’t fix this. I can’t do the things I used to do and that’s just how it is. Fibromyalgia? Right. I don’t even believe it’s real, but I have it. Denial much? Yes, please. Now what?

I don’t write about this much. I’ve pretty much abandoned my pain blog. Because I don’t want a ‘pain’ blog. It does help to talk about it, though. Still…I don’t even want to THINK about it. Even my mother recognizes things now that upset her. Mostly, my memory issues. And she saw how much my hands shake a couple of visits ago. It freaked her out. Shit…it freaks me out. But it’s just nerves playing their silly games in my body. Shooting here…there…doing what they want to. Doc says they’re dead. I don’t understand that. If they’re dead, how can I move my hands and arms? What’s with the nerve pain? The doc who did my hand surgery said they’ll either die, completely, or regrow. So…how the fuck do you know if they’re growing? And…how do you know if they’re dead? Shit.

There’s a lot of information on the net about Fibromyalgia. Now and then, I spend a few hours trying to find that magic thing that someone came up with that makes it better. So far, no luck. But…I don’t have cancer or emphysema or anything as horrible as all of that. My bloodwork is perfect, heart’s right on the money…good to go. So, I do realize that there’s much to be grateful for. And, I am. More than I can say. But I’m still frustrated with all of this. Who wouldn’t be?

This sounds like a pity party, but it’s not. It’s a rant. Like I said, I’m thankful for the good things, healthwise. I always remember that when I feel like this. It doesn’t help, but we all have things to be thankful for and we should all practice gratitude. So…there’s that. And, I’m grateful that Exish and I are still friends. He takes good care of me, for the most part. I’d be living with my mother right now if he didn’t. I have been trying to figure out a net based job that I can do from home. There has to be a way to make money without using my hands in any strong-arm fashion. I would open a little grooming shop, but I don’t think I can do even a few a day anymore. When I was laid off, I was about to have to quit, anyway. The pain was too much.

Though I hated being a pet groomer, (don’t judge me, it’s a fucking difficult endeavor), I did love working with ‘bad’ dogs. They interest me a lot. Bad dogs tend to have a sense of self worth that other dogs don’t have. I never used muzzles, although they don’t hurt anything. I just loved to study the little fuckers and figure them out. Touch therapy worked best for me. Once they grew accustom to my touch, they would move on to another phase of their disposition, and we’d go from there. I groomed dogs whose owners couldn’t pick up. I think they got it that I was the same kind of pissed off as they were, or something. Who knows? In almost 20 years, I only had two serious bites. Both from little dogs. This German Shepard went for me one time, but I got away. lol! Still…I continued to work with both of those dogs. One was like my baby by the time it was over with. The other…I told his mom to find a new groomer. He was naturally aggressive, and you cannot train that out of an animal. But, all in all, I miss my bad babies. A couple of them have died since I was layed off. It breaks my heart.

The main thing with dogs that bite is whether or not they are effective biters. Most dogs give you a couple of test bites, or they’re serious, but don’t realize their own power or how to negotiate an effective bite. Others, however, take a ‘one strike, you’re out’ policy when it comes to biting. It absolutely fascinates me. I don’t know why. If there was a college course about dog bites, I’d take it. Honestly. I think that the way dogs bite reflects how many humans live their lives. You have the tasters…the teasers…then, you have the land sharks. You just never know what you’re dealing with until you get close enough.

Good grief, what a random ramble. I think I’m done now. I need to put a few more things away and such, then I’ll be finished with Phase 1 of my glorious bedroom redux. I can’t wait until it’s done. It’s going to be gorgeous. Hmmm…Maybe I’ll start taking naps, after all…

I Fold

The masochist is out of the picture. Already. I’m curious as to how certain words seem to take on a light of ambiguity when someone finds out what is expected of them. Submissive…masochist…sadist…slave. Hm. Seems pretty fucking clear to me. Perhaps I don’t have the ability to tolerate certain things. I enjoy roles. People in their respective roles. My rules . It’s just easier.

I’d love to have big, huge love in my life. While Exish and I have talked a lot of things out, we aren’t truly solid. I know that. It’s nice to get along, though. But, at this point in my life, I just need an ABC situation. I don’t need to be toyed with in any way. While I’d like to have a love relationship with someone, it is not necessary. It complicates things. When you envision, together, a future, love brings on quiet expectations of leeway when it comes to the roles that each person is expected to play. I want…no…I NEED someone who will stay in his fucking lane and not test me at every opportunity.

Maybe it’s me. I mean…I can’t even talk to someone online for a day without running them off. And I don’t want to involve myself in the local ‘scene’, as it were. Honestly, I’m shocked that there even is one here. In any case, I have never been a ‘scene’ type. I’ve been to a couple of conventions in Houston, but that’s different. I prefer my personal life to stay on the low. I’m out to the people who matter, but I have no desire to be recognized by Mistress Fucksalot at the Dollar General. Shit…

I think I give up. Truly. Fuck it. It’s not worth it. I am not emotionally equipped to deal with searching for something as specific as what I want. Then, to find it and have it all go to Hell…No…cannot deal with it. That sucks. It sucks sooooo much. All I know for sure is that men are lying motherfuckers. I have no use for any of them, in terms of a real relationship. My emotional reserve is depleted and I am done trying to avoid settling. I’d rather have nothing than settle for less than I want. I have Exish to hang with…my boys…Mom. My grandson. Plenty of people in my life. I don’t need to bring any more drama into the mix than is already present. Fuck. It. All.

meaningless word vomit

The sun is bright today, and it’s very quiet out here in the countryside. Exish is working around the property, doing this and that. The girls, (Pepper and Jez, his dogs), are running around, right behind him, and the cats are inside with me. I’m listening to Guns N Roses through my earphones…very low volume…just so I can hear enough to sing along.

Exish was asleep on the couch when I woke up this morning. I sat in my chair and watched him sleep for the longest time. His face looks nothing like the boy I married. It’s weathered and hard looking now. His body, broken down after thirty years in the oilfield. I love his hands. They are rough and calloused…the hands of a hard working man. As I watch him, I’m taken with love and desire and pain…so much pain. I reached over and brushed the hair from his eyes and watched him a bit longer before waking him. When I did, I acted as though I had just gotten out of bed. Can’t let the wolf know what the lamb has been up to…

I ‘met’ a man online yesterday. His messages were frightening. I could see that his words were carefully chosen and meant to leave an impact. They did. I liked it. Because I can be frightening, as well. And, I was. I can’t help but laugh as I think about it. When engaging someone in a conversation geared specifically to cause intimidation and fear, never underestimate who you are…engaging. I learned the art of creating fear from my stalker, M, many years ago. I endured four long years of it. But he never once knew how afraid I was of him. In the end, he was the one afraid of me. Suffice to say that I don’t do ‘victim’ very well, and I’m exceedingly patient when I need to be. If you’re going to fuck with my life, you’d best not slip up, even once. If you do, I’ve got you. Game over. For M, it took four years. He was very good at what he did. Top of his game. But even the best can falter. Lucky for me. VERY unlucky for M. lol!

In any case, this man wants to meet. Admittedly, I was somewhat taken by his demented and twisted manner of chatting online. However, after talking to him by phone, I find him rather irritating. As it turns out, he is a very ‘safe’ person. I do appreciate that in a man. It’s a great quality. But in contrast to who he presented himself as, ‘safe’ was a huge letdown. He reminded me of a hall monitor…somewhat of a tattle-tale. You know? I expected to hear something else in his voice when he answered. Instead, he sounded fearful. It made me feel bad. I coddled him for a bit to reassure him that I wasn’t scary and I knew he wasn’t, either, etc. Out of nowhere, he began to swear that he’d never stalk me, or otherwise insert himself into my life uninvited. He said he had no desire to have the sheriff show up at his door, cops all over the yard in front of the neighbors. WHAT??? It was as though he had actually experienced the situation. THAT was a type of creepy that I could not top, nor did I have a desire to. I explained that he would never have the opportunity to force himself into my life, anyway, because ol Margaret, (my trusty pistola), was always on duty. lol! Shit! What is wrong with people??? “Why, yes, I’d love to meet, date…make love to you. But, when it’s over, I may have to kill you.” Again…SHIT!

Yeah…I’m at a low point. Seems like I’m not doing much of a job at picking myself up, either. It’s pathetic. I hate myself for it, but I’m feeling really low on strength, emotionally and physically. I just can’t seem to get it together. And I’m 48 years old. That’s pretty fucking old to be such a hot mess. My diet has gone to Hell in a handbasket since Exish has been home. Even when we get along, I’m nervous all the time when I’m around him and eat a lot more. My hair is falling out again and I just feel bad. I finished off another bottle of whiskey. I’ve been living here since the middle of April. Since then, I’ve consumed more booze than I have in the last ten years, altogether. Granted, that wasn’t a huge amount, anyway, (I stay on top of my drinking issues), but it’s too much for me. I have to nip this in the bud. I can’t go out like that. It’s so typical of someone in my gene pool. I come from a long line of highly functional alcoholics. And, like I said in a previous post, I seem to have managed to pass those genes on to my youngest son. So, there is no way I can drop the ball on this one. How can I help him if he knows that I’m a drunk, too?

Exish and I are going to move furniture around today. It’s time to get things settled a bit more…decorate…nest. I actually love this little house. It feels like an apartment, which I LOVE, and has a decent layout. It’s perfect for one person, great for two. I’d like to redo the bathroom some time in the near future. I want a huge soaking tub. The way the plumbing is situated, it would be just a cosmetic redo, so it wouldn’t be too hard on the budget. But it’s okay the way it is. I should just be happy with that. I never feel settled. I’m always thinking things could be better. In all fairness, I have had to move from a giant house into a one bedroom loft, basically. I think I deserve just one perk…Right?  🙂

I just wish I had a real partner in life. A man who has never hurt me, and never would. I’m not one of those people who gets stuck on how ‘hurt’ they are or have been. But I don’t like living with the memories. I don’t like that the lies and betrayal changed me. Yet, I can’t change back. I don’t even remember what I was like before. Not really. I know there were years, when the boys were little, that I was as happy as I’ve ever been. I kept a beautiful home, had lots of friends and family over all the time, had amazing parties. My children were happy and our house was always buzzing with the sound of children playing. It was just so…fun. And meaningful. Traditional. Loving. Those are things I barely relate to anymore. I feel so uncertain of where I should go from here.

Well, I should get going. I’ve rambled on about myself long enough…saying a whole lot about nothing.

No Rest For The Darling!

I can’t sleep. This unholy combination of physical pain and emotional dizziness serves as a condom…magnum…between me and my dreams.

I’ve written, chatted and spoken of so many personal things this evening that I find myself asking a host of new questions. Do I truly have what it takes to love another man ever again?  Do I have the will to lose weight and get in shape without having some perverse surgery? Do I want to trade Broomhilda, my truck, for a Dodge Challenger…the one with the giant Hemi? Because that would be pretty awesome…Would that be a good substitute for sex? I’ve heard it’s pretty damn close. Omg…so many questions!

I think I may get time to go see S next week. Depends on his schedule. Frankly, I could use a night of ridiculously great sex with a man who has never hurt me. And, before you judge, please note that I’ve only been with two men on a totally intimate level in my lifetime, and have never cheated on Exish. Not that I need to make excuses. After giving things more thought, my conscience is clear.

Youngest called this evening. He was sober, so I knew he was broke and why he was calling within the first ten seconds of the call. He said he needed gas money because he has a job interview. Tomorrow. You know…SUNDAY? Yeah, I just snapped to that while I was lying in bed, trying to sleep. And, yes, the money has already been sent. Damn it! That kid knows I’m scatter brained and he gets me every time. Ah, well…I bet he’s not sober now. Thanks Mom!

I should at least go back to bed and try to sleep. I barely slept last night, either, and if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m gonna have all the grace of a bathsalt zombie.

Peace out, girl scouts!

Don’t Call It A Comeback


It’s been a lil minute since I posted anything, really. A few weeks, I think. A lot of…life, I guess…has gone on . Good things and bad things. Although, at this point in my life, it is increasingly difficult to distinguish between the two, since so many lessons are learned from those bad things. Lessons that I deeply value. There is also an ever-growing understanding inside of me that my very worst day would be considered a lovely day by someone else in this world. In light of that, what do I really have to complain about?

One bad thing that I have yet to manage to learn from is living with constant, sever, pain. Honestly, I’ve had about all I can take of it. I hate the pain, I hate the meds, I hate the whole thing. A few weeks ago, I ran out of my primary pain medication. I actually looked at it as a good thing, initially. I took the situation as an opportunity to try to another approach to dealing with pain since I hate taking that medication. It dulls me…changes me in ways that have a negative impact on my life. So, I thought I’d try something new and different. Think outside the box and what have you. I thought that I might actually be able to meditate the pain away. That did not work at all, so I moved on to wishing it away. Still, no luck. After that, I simply pretended that  it wasn’t  there every second of the day. Mind over matter. THAT DID NOT WORK. For once, I have encountered something that I cannot simply power through, no matter how badly I’d like to.

Went to visit Mom and my grandfather. While I was there, I visited the doc as a walk-in that Monday. I couldn’t wait for my appointment to get some relief. My doc wasn’t in, so I saw another one. Dr. L. First off, I had to take a drug test for the first time. People who take scheduled meds are now required to take drug tests. If you don’t have the prescribed drug in your system, what are you doing with it? It’s a legit question, considering that my forty dollar bottle of meds has a twelve hundred dollar street value. Even so, it feels demeaning and invasive. It feels like judgement, which it’s not. After that, it was a bit of a wait while they processed my test. The nurse came back to inform me that I had passed. What? Okay…I think.

The nurse explained the importance of drug testing, in the context of all the new DEA regulations. Were the DEA to review my file and see that I had not been drug tested, the clinic could be sanctioned in some way, and my doctor could be severely disciplined. Seriously. The DEA? Those silly bastards can’t keep crack out of our elementary schools, but they’re going to spend their time harassing legit doctors and the patients who need them? While I’m aware of the huge problem with these meds being sold on the street, I still find the situation laughable. I went out of my way to find a doc that was not in any way associated with pill distribution. My doc has no ‘rep’. She’s a good doctor who believes that pain drugs were made for a reason and that there is no shame in prescribing them , nor is there any shame in taking them. (We had that conversation one day after I explained how embarrassed I feel when I get meds filled sometimes). In any case, I was happy to be on the verge of getting a much needed break from this pain.

I went to Galveston to get my prescriptions filled. I drove down the seawall for a Sonic coke while I waited. Tourists crowded the island. I had all but forgotten how crowded that place could get on a holiday weekend. The water was choppy and mud brown, and the wind was blowing like crazy. But it was nice to see all those shiny happy people. I really miss that place, since moving up here to tree country.

The morning flew by and, before I knew it, it was noon and I was almost back to Mom’s house. She had a really nice lunch laid out…fried chicken and a garden salad. She always makes things special when I’m visiting. While I was doing the doc/med thing, she was getting mink eye lashes put on. I noticed how amazing they looked as we talked over our lunch. Grandad just sort of sat there, not really in the room at all. He’s gotten so old. At ninety, he’s earned the right to ignore our girl talk and just enjoy his meal. But, I do worry about him. In the last year, the signs of age have really begun to set in in terms of his mental state. In his mind, he’s still a Marine and can handle anything. In reality, he has a heater by his chair because 73 degrees is too cold for him in the house.

After lunch, still not having time to shower, I piled on some makeup and tried to do my hair. It was so hot in that house. Even Mom was complaining about it, but she and I both agreed that Dad’s comfort came first. So…sweating it was! lol!

I got my trip back home underway, making a stop to meet a friend. I was embarrassed by my appearance. I’m already a large woman, but I normally look well groomed. Not so much that day! Dear GAWD! It was just the most uncomfortable feeling I can think of. I was in the clothes that I’d slept in the night before, since Mom spilled her Monster drink all over my clean clothes. It had taken so long at the doctor that I didn’t have time to stop and get my nails done, so I recycled the ones from last time. I’m telling you…the whole thing was just…OMG! Plus, there is a weird smell in my truck. Exish and I have been trying to find its source for weeks now. I have no idea what is. I’m actually afraid to find out. Yep…it’s THAT bad. When it was all said and done, I was never so happy to get back on the road home…here…the boonies.

And that, dear people, is that.