Along with the Hummingbird, she would point them out to me from her hammock at night or in a gift shop, a member of the Owl posse, which all Owl discoveries I frankly smiled with a nod or “Wow!” look, not wanting to reveal my Owl boredom, which is just the proper thing to do when one’s mom hunts a daughter down, in Michaels, dangling a Owl ornament from two aisles over, on sale.

Not to mention, with double thumbs up and a text to check out the coupons for extra savings on uh, Owl ornaments, I fake excitement sometimes because I appreciate it being faked for me.

It’s why we all smile at baby Picts being shoved from wallets into our faces, the person waiting for your delightful praise over their he/she child whose head is so big and odd shaped, you look in panic for the first adorable truth you can gather.

“I love Elmo!” is not the best distraction, especially if the one paying the check is an offended mom who was expecting something spectacular about her bald headed beady eyed fetus,

I will admit mom is to Owls as I am with fairies. Not the cutesy butterfly kind but the bad ass ones with attitude and tube socks, drawn on cards and obviously not happy about it.

After getting knicked in the heels in Walmart by old people pushing carts and fat people sitting and driving them, the right fairy reminds me im not alone in this insanity. I see that angry fairy and feel connected, validated, a non comformist if you will. She tells me every year I’m an idiot to have not shopped online. She never bullshits and I respect that.

Mother once had a dream i argued with her in Kroger for purchasing an owl in which she proceeded to cut off it’s head for a centerpiece during the Holidays. I stand behind my dream argument she relayed for it made perfect sense to me, the awake me. I am not Joseph but it seemed she were the owl, always cutting her own head off in sacrifice for family, anything to make four bratty kids happy, her own self the living sacrifice.

If Maury were to film her at Christmas, I doubt he could ever convince her what we have tried.

She brought the joy not her Holiday gifts, traditions, and unreachable expectations.

She was Christmas, just her, and I doubt she’ll ever see it the way I did, awake, dead, or decapitated.

It’s too bad Owls and Fairies can’t see more eye to eye on these things.

I bought her a huge Owl during summer, not on sale.
an Antique shop and bought it for that next Christmas, contemplating the perfect hiding space, delighted I were going to make this the gift under the tree the gift she wouldn’t stop talking about for 10 Christmas years to come, I had it double wrapped and hid it in my trunk. It was the Owl no brother could top. I had won best gift.

Unfortunately, I called her on the way home and told her all about it.
I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for happy gift reactions.

It was more than a hit. She squealed, hugged and did a circle dance move, some sort of Owl ritual perhaps. I looked away. Not even The Who would appreciate those moves.
Get it. The Who – Hoo Hooo.

She paced the house with this enormous fake creature with a “What the hell am I going to do with this?” look on her face, not that she uses the word hell, but I secretly hopes she does sometimes say something crazy, despite herself. I always found it nonsense growing up she didn’t like “sucks,” as if Jesus died on the cross for those who say “sucks,” “blows” and “sharted,” which is a fart and shit combined, which she didn’t even realize.

I digress.

She decided on the outdoors, a tree stump once hit by lighting, where she placed the freakishly large Owl and announced to me and her doggies, “Perfect. It is the symbol of my protection.”

On this one particular nasty day where she cried a lot, falling into a painful day of grieving life and loss, she looked out the window the next day and sighed.

“No wonder. The Owl fell and so did I.”

She marched her determined little self into the wet woods to put that Owl back on post.
It was between them two, but I smiled at their resolve.

When I started school, I had to do table top special assignments to shoot interesting objects with our new knowledge of studio lighting, so I took her Owl with permission to photograph.

And so, we haven’t spoken since and her Owl was away when her things were taken out and moved, the Owl never mentioned or requested. I had forgotten too, or blocked it out, the two seem eerily the same these days.

Until I found it in my boyfriend’s closet.

I screamed bloody murder, covering my mouth and pointing, just pointing to the linen closet.

“What is THAT? some kind of sick joke?”
My face was white and ghastly but it didn’t make him smarter.

“Uuh, I hid it in there cause I don’t fold towels.”

I demanded it be gone the next day, the thought of it again made me hurt, in places I don’t know how to stop, the hurt that stupid Owl brought from his closet could never be fixed, not even by Christmas, or fairies or all the curse words I could say out loud or math camps I could remove.

That Owl must be dealt with.

He agreed.

Or so I thought, running into the damn thing AGAIN but this time in the basement but with cobwebs in the dark, the village idiot must not watch too many gangster movies.

Who doesn’t know what “Get rid of it means?”

And how I paced, it seemed too creepy to chop it up, too mean to toss, too hurtful to display, so I put a note and left it in the street, facing my neighbor so he hopefully would be pegged as the nut.

Judge me but I did want it to have a nice home.

I have learned a lot about myself, about grief, over the torture of this Owl.
What to do with it, what it all meant, where it all belonged, how to make it not hurt me, the projections, delusions, compromises. The final goodbye.

I feel the eyes, beady scary eyes following me, ready to peck out my heart with that beak and its predator claws.

It wasn’t until Kat, my preteen with a perma scowl surprised me saying in sarcasm, “Whats up with nana? Is she dead or something, what’s the deal?”
She rolled her eyes and bit into pancakes bitterly.

I didn’t answer. I did the rational move instead of course, grabbed scissors out of the drawer and ran outside.

Yes, I understand this is dangerous, but I never claimed to be trained or certified in matters of devastation, especially when confronted with my biggest judge, a very scary creature to have not developed breasts yet.

It was time to meet my Nemasis, the last owl remaining.

I suppose it is cute, hanging with intention from a tree outside, made of pottery and painted in the shape of an Owl. I cut the rope, on my tippy toes, watching it dissemble before hitting the ground, the head broke in half, rolling under my car and stopping under my wheel, broken glass side up.

“Damnit,” I cursed, belly on ground, shoving inch by inch to it as I broke, straight to the ugly cry.

Grabbing a stick and hitting it made it roll to the other tire, my tears now making strange contortions in my body. My mother could see my girls whenever she liked, provided I was there, and so how was I to tell my preteen who didn’t like much about me as it were that there was something so bad, so flawed that my own mother couldn’t even bear it, not even to see her girls, who I know she loves.

She’d hate me and I didn’t blame her, or the damn Owl for that matter, so with a concrete face and smeared mascara, I was a sight rolling from under my car, the cursing and crying to a God I liked as much as Darth Vadar didn’t make for a proud moment.

How I wish this ended in a rehab story, but instead I got the head, chucked it and all I heard was “pink, pink, pink,” and the damn thing landed in direct position of passing vehicles, certain to cause a flat if hit, so I screamed profanities and told it to go back to the G-damn Goodwill and other seriously deranged statements a lunatic might say to a piece of Owl pottery.

I kicked it until satisfied, slipping a little, my hurt pounding like bread dough in a Southern biscuit special, I felt I got it out, whatever it was, until I turned.

My baby, my nine year old with her big serious brown grey eyes were open as wide as they could go.

I had lost all account as how long ago I had gone crazy or filthy mouthed, beating the shit out of an Owl qualifies for therapy, if it were not too late. Every horrific site of her in paIn, pulling out hair, every Dr. Phil show where parents remove all furniture for their own safety flashed in segments. I had nothing.

She was traumatized for life.

Here it came. I closed my eyes and from the child who rolled her eyes like she were presenter for the “eye roller” child of the year award, who did not want me to call her Kat, a new horror I am guilty of constantly, looked at me, paused, and so i sat in a dramatic suffocating moment of sick remorse.

She grabbed my hands, in our yard, the actual Public, tears filling and not because i said no computer, but real tears. She threw her teeny body in a hug I haven’t seen since she found friends and sleepovers.

I think I was in shock.

“I want to be the mom that you are,” she said forcing my chin down to look through me.

I was either shocked or disassociating, I’m unsure.

“because, she finished, all you ever want is for your kids to be free.”

She pointed in serious gesture to me. “You mom, you know what it means to let me be free.”
She pointed to the ground now, arching her back straight, to finish her thought.
“and that’s what I’ll be too…”

She patted me now, easing out of the embrace, and if I could tell you what the hell that has to do with me pulverizing a poor pottery Owl while crying like a lunatic, I may be qualified for this mothering job, which obviously I am not.

Maybe she thought I went nutso over her comment over the pancakes and has been trained to diffuse highly emotional moms.

Maybe she is really the Owl, wise and old her soul came here, light years ahead of my evolution, sometimes I feel I evolve slower than a chicken in a crock pot not turned on, and even if she stopped our special handshake and gave away all her dolls and criticizes my cooking, she really sees me.
To be seen is all I ever hoped for and Owls even at night, have the perfect radar vision.

Maybe she really just wants that Xbox 360 for Christmas.
Maybe she is part fairy, part owl, a mix of my mother and I combined, and she understands that my broken Owl holds a truth I just can’t see yet.

Or maybe she saw no broken owl, just her mothers broken heart, a thought I hate.

Maybe in unknowingly letting her see me flawed and wrong and insane, she saw my mess and loved me the more for it.

Owls can see perfectly at night, the only creature who flies with precision and beauty and purpose in the midst of complete and utter darkness.

And perhaps, so can my Kat.

It is just my way, a nervous tick, bizarre and dark my humor comes to protect me in times of humiliation, terror, and even when death awaits, I can’t help it.

I get the giggles.

The first thing that surprised me was how I had ever forgotten how hard I make my dad laugh. It was strange to have forgotten the way he laughs at my jokes, his hand slapping his knee, the way he grabbed his side as if it were literally hurting.

I missed that.

I asked him if he had a 23 page nuker letter for me, partly to test the waters, partly to make a dig, partly to judge, something I had seem to have become numb to doing. He laughed.

He had aged, white hairs were more visible, a heart attack now ensured an “Ipod” be sewn into him, and he seemed immediately different, soft, much more gentle and patient, like he perhaps had a story of his own.

I wasn’t even skeptical or disrespectful as I had been for so long.

I was plain curious.

It was so odd to be his daughter again, like I had rented him or something, all of the sudden this man I had so grieved as a father was putting gas in my tank till full, checking if I had a seatbelt, not letting me pay for my soda.

I felt nothing.

When I walked into the cabin, I had to die laughing at his bachelor life, the same damn exercise bike still in place but with a mound of clothes covering it to the floor.

I stopped dead in my tracks at his pointing out the book that “changed his life” but doesn’t remember, the 4 agreements I nodded, but It wasn’t that. I saw the books next to it, the ones he hadn’t read but I owned, outlined to death and nearly destroyed after dropping it in the bathtub once.

“Dad, are you reading this?”

He squinted two inches away, trying to remember, but I knew that no way did he find this book on his own.

“My therapist has me reading those, which I am going to start,” a pause, then the kicker, “You know you come from Narcisstic parents.”

“Wait. He even pronounced the word correctly, and was instructed in therapy to read the book that had just recently become my Bible?”

I was feeling nervous now, for it was clear he was not even trying to impress me or make a story, but I had been told he had scammed that Dr. and wasted his time and patience, taking his money instead of using it for therapy.

This began many nervous pause and with a question, my breath trying hard not to show my anticipation.

This was it, the moment to get my questions answered, the ones I stared at in the middle of the night.

“Hey Dad. What ever happened with that grant you got that paid for your insurance?”

He didn’t skip a beat.

“Well, I was without a job and had no insurance because in one month of having my first silent heart attack, my insurance went up from 330 to over 900 dollars. There was just no way. I begged the doc to not make me, you know how I feel about needles.”

I let out my breath finally, my mind spinning.

“I didn’t even ask but the Doc went in his drawer and pulled one document to sign, telling me I qualified.”

Then I realized the ridiculous fiction I passed off as the Bible.

Like a disciple in a cult, I had been repeating that he got pissed his insurance wouldn’t get paid for by a relative, dropped his insurance on purpose to piss that relative off and having no job or money, he had gotten a bloody grant? He had to have scammed it I nodded in agreement, the other heads in unison.

I had been there five minutes and already I could feel in the way he talked and moved, his focus on his Four Agreements book he displayed were one of a billion web shots flashing thru my mind.

I had been right. And oh, horribly wrong, but RIGHT, but how? I had just been certain I had been right. I didn’t know right could feel so wrong.
How could I be angry at my family when I had participated in the same alienation that had been done to him?

And oh God, the blogs, all the public blogs I had written!

I couldn’t go back now, I thought, guilt rising like a hot air balloon.
He had lived here alone, totally ostracized, for YEARS, and I expected him not to change at ALL, not even a teeny bit? How could this have happened? I know enough just being alive I can transform in a day, a moment, and I wrote him off like a bad check.

I decided to ask a lot of questions, strange ones to him I know, and I asked in my poker face just for my own observation, my heart pounding.

I didn’t even have to hear the answers to the questions I had just known would destroy us before we had the chance to start. I knew in five minutes I was in trouble for this wasn’t the man I remembered, not at all.

I was sick as he chatted nonchalantly, this man I had been so afraid of had big tears in his eyes because we were listening to Adele, who always made him cry. He told me about his anger and what that had been like to deal with, how he had just graduated to acceptance of never seeing his children again, how that broke him and he only wanted more than anything just to be able to hug his sons, know his grandchildren.

He spoke of my mom being his best friend, his entire identity had been as mom’s husband, my dad, and without us, he was nothing.

He had to have this lesson to teach him who he was.

I knew my father and I were alike, but in this moment I saw he understood me.

He understood that to work and work for acceptance and respect to sabotage that same love you wanted again and again, along with his communication problems, he had hit rock bottom.

And he needed to.

And so did I.

I didn’t like myself suddenly.

I could feel my stomach tightening, everything in my Spirit saw that I was wrong, and it had almost been three years and I had judged him harshly, removed all contact and yes, he agrees I should have. He had been toxic and in the middle of a horrible divorce, had gone nuts, knew it, owned it.

I hadn’t anticipated that.

I remember that passage from the Bible as a little girl something like, “To enter the kingdom of God you have to become as a little child,” and that was the second harsh lesson of this day.

I hugged him goodbye, him not asking for anything from me and I didn’t care what anyone thought, not anyone for my father had taught me a valuable lesson this day. I had nothing to teach or give, nothing and his inner work humbled me, my pride and investment in being “right” or not being “accepted” had blinded me in a war that had never been mine to fight.

I had been a part of the ugliest divorce in which the children were the missiles, and I had to forgive that. I had to forgive him. I had to forgive myself. And like he said, I had to forgive mom. But first, I loaded Kat and Lola in the car and my tummy turned in anxiety for I knew they had not seen him for years and what would I say? How would I tell them?

I got out the first sentence.

“Girls, we are going to see Papa…”

They interrupted me.

“His colors are good now, mommy?” Kat asked with big wide eyes.

“Papa misses me?” says Lola, and together when I nodded, tears flowing down my cheeks, I didn’t have to ask them forgiveness or explain my reasoning, they looked at each other, squealed, hugged and told me to turn up the radio, putting their hands up in the air like we were on a roller coaster.

And so a child shall lead them.

“Ewwww” you might be thinking but as a woman with D breasts at the age of ten, who cried every day for having her bra unhooked in class, the nickname “Melons” still haunting her all the way to College, would like one day dedicated to men not wearing undies.

One day of imagining boys wonder if their jockstrap will be snapped in class, to be not looked at in the eye at gas stations by creepy women ogling or giggling, to wonder if their ideas are respected for the idea not the bulging Fabio package they sling around might do a world of good.

I bet it would begin the consumer frenzy of “Men’s Secret,” a place men go to enhance, push up, squeeze, seduce and reduce while feeding billions of dollars into the idea that pain does equal gain, that their lady will not cheat if they are taking the proper care of their packages and since penis implants are on the rise, they too might even result to buying the latest pump, inserts, invisible tape and itchy lace, with high priced tags promised to build their self esteem.

It is a good thought in theory but maybe I’m a lazy activist, but I’m sorry, no way in hell do I want to look at scrotums all day, but I have a better idea anyways, one that does not entail balls being bounced by disgusting men who don’t know they are disgusting even with a national holiday to prove it.

National ADD Day Folks.

I’m excited just thinking about it, God I love pretending, for one day a year I would dream of waking up and knowing as I stir my coffee that just today I shall be validated, that all those logical judgmental linear people would be sweating it.

I would be a teacher that day, because yes, it is my fantasy and yes, no one is more qualified.

I would start the day ensuring that for my student’s best interest every sign would be gone, roads would just disappear and locker, phones, and purses would never be right where they left it last.

That would begin the grading curve you see, cause there would still be those people who despite every move I threw at them, would show up on time, with two organizers, a monogrammed and matching day calendar and planner secretly inserted into their veins by aliens who despite my holiday, like to fuck with me.

I would immediately set time for them with a counselor who would kindly explain they are fucked in the head for sitting still, causing distraction by their lack of distraction, and for their own “help” I would line up serious meds, expensive and frowned upon by the chaos committee cause damn people, how hard is it to lose your keys? What are they buried and glued up your ass?

How can you live with yourself for knowing you would never lose a cell phone and is it really sweetie, that hard I would ask, nicely patting them on the shoulder to make them understand I only mean to help, but remembering appointments instead of daydreaming could fuck up your whole life, if left untreated!

Then after a good talk and some healthy shame and dangerous chemicals that may or may not work and who knows if it could cause cancer or birth defects, I would tell them to write a play, dance a choreographed routine Janet would be proud of, do a stand up routine by the end of class on cue but whatever they do, it must be original, creative, inspiring, and if I’m not crying or laughing, they may not make it to college.

Then, I would not take excuses, explain that creativity and spontaneity are a must in the work force, that being “LOGICAL” was something drug companies made up to be rich, to stop making excuses and while they scramble to try to not sit still, I would ask if anyone in the class had done their homework.

When my best pupil describes with humor and confidence how she had in one day thrown 200 bucks in the trash because her other hand was busy, left her coffee mug on the hood of the car, forgotten her son’s math tutoring for she had been rolling in the floor with him and lost track of the time, we would stand and congratulate her, give her honors and a full scholarship.

After reading her poetry to the class, brilliant and beautiful poetry that moved us all to tears, it would only make sense she had created it while looking for her purse that had been frozen by accident cause somehow it got left next to the ground beef she forgot had expired.

Duh.

Then after removing math and science or at least only deeming it as important as say theatre, music, or P.E., if you were a student who still struggled, and I mean the serious ill, the ones who were too busy thinking about fractions to tell a joke when called upon, well, then that idiot will set the bar for what the other linears never want to be branded as so they will hide, cry, seek forgiveness and mood stimulators to fit in to a classroom that maybe with enough fear, will conform, hide their responsibility and gifts and one day, we just pray and hope they too will make something of themselves.

So, on my pretend holiday, I will  my pretend shirt I would buy but just never heard of it, “ADD AWESOME” sip my coffee and write my blog, until I remember something I forgot, again, and oh, shit.

Am I getting the girls today from the bus stop or is that tomorrow?

I guess that ends my secret holiday, but don’t worry, I’m sure to lock my keys, lose a child, forget a bunch of names and die of massive boredom at least once today.

And perfect example is Ingrid, who rocks my point.

Hell yeah epiphanies come straight from Netflix, usually after Mad Men or Samantha Who.

I used to hate big loud cinematic dramas with cars exploding and people running for cover, until recently. Suddenly, the man running from his captives, heart pumping adrenaline and face dirty with a hint of dried blood on his upper lip was no stranger.

I find myself nodding in understanding, laughing at the irony, and I admit, am even sometimes that fool yelling at the television to “Watch out!” and “NO, no, no, never trust an ex who needs information from the FBI, IDIOT“

Sigh.

I have been seclusive and paranoid, watching for people in the bushes if you will, always on guard for the next betrayal, and finding it hard to face that my experiences have shaped me into someone who is constantly on the edge, a person surviving, not living.

Barely surviving.

I have had huge gaping holes in my memory, at night I toss and turn, questions and thoughts burning loose, so strong my desire to be free of the darkness that has engulfed my very being.

One channel tells me to let it go, to wipe a new slate clean, to not be defined by what I was, to go live the life I dream of, to just let the hurt heal and let it be.

The next channel screams impossibility, not without answers, not with this sinking feeling in my gut that nothing is okay, and never will be if I don’t look back to move forward.

This part of me screams into the pillow at night.

I thought I would be most disturbed by my recent estrangement with my mother and yet, it was not her that I thought of, but him.

My father.

It has been an impossibility that I would ever be in this position, the scapegoat of a dysfunctional and Narcissistic Family, completely ostracized from a family after setting down a boundary. One boundary began the long fight into this cold war and sometimes I wonder if it was even worth it, unconditionally loved or not, I forgot what I even was fighting for or if it ever even mattered.

I do know without a doubt that the claims I know and God help the ones I don’t know are so preposterous, so beyond my personal understanding for not having a relationship with your own daughter and grandchildren that in this grief I kept wrestling and wondering over and over again.

What if this had been done to him too?

The answers all came back immediately that no, this is an impossibility, but still, I was sick, going over and over scenarios that made no possible sense and yet were the reason behind every bit of my motives for keeping him far, so very far away.

Did he lose his mind, quit therapy as I had understood, taken up a mistress, and had he loved us at all? The questions I have for this man are endless but the answers have never come, only more heartache and disillusionment than ever, a door I closed.

I wasn’t falling for that stupid trap door again.

But still, the part nagged me the most was over his stalking us, a terrifying period of time I did not want to ever revisit. But, did his visits and letters have everything to do with her and nothing to do with me?

She did live with me at the time.

And yet, of course not. She would never lie.

But she had, indeed lied about me, a part of herself, her soul, or so I thought. Wouldn’t he have received even worse treatment or am I just searching to be lost, too afraid to shut the door and start my life with the acceptance I am no one, from no family, and any attempt otherwise will only set me back years in progress?

Until I eerily saw him AGAIN, at the same damn QT, in the week he also ran into Divorcee and other coincidences that felt more like tin garbage cans being smacked against my ears, God telling me to wake the hell up.

This was dicey and secret and I could only imagine the repercussions it could have, and even though Thelma may not have ever spoken to me again, I had to follow my gut.

I had to go meet with my father.

I had unfinished business.

I have been waiting a long time now to write about this, always on pause until the epiphany arrives first, I have decided it is time to put that sleeping dragon to sleep, the one who can’t move on without going back, and it is time to face my fears.

It is time for me to not only write about him but this past six months as well, on how I came to live with my current boyfriend, the new found trials of motherhood and did I mention that yes, I live with a boyfriend? 

Strap on the Granny panties, Miss Obvious, no more hiding behind ridiculous Netflix movies and back into your own life.

If only Mad Men had an episode on this. In exception to the time I yelled Pimp or rolled my eyes every time you “fell in love,” Don Draper, I will remove all judgement of you in hopes my readers will be equally kind, and if not, I suppose I could always steal an identity, get filthy rich, marry my secretary and run from my past.

Hmm. Perhaps Don Draper should try Granny Panties himself.

Related articles

• Why Hello There, WordPress Blog (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)

I now understand that growing up, the poor choices I made perhaps weren’t even poor, that just maybe they were

choices I made in desperation to be free, independent, and were part of the normal development of adolescent children.

I thought all children had massive guilt for wanting to go to school, to sleepovers, to college. I had believed I was innately evil or wrong, my intuition correct that I was loved by the image of me she formed and modeled, and to mirror back anything else would be hurtful, damaging, abusive, wrong, and condemned.

I didn’t believe this was true for a long time.

I thought if I just moved away from my home, the beach and my friends where I loved life, to her, married and proved what a good girl I really was, she would see I wasn’t bad, that I loved her, that my heart was pure.

I had to make up to her all the pain I caused being me.

So, I did. I worked myself to death in my marriage and motherhood for me and for her, codependency became the dark cancer that began to eat at my soul, spreading into the disappearance of Self, rotting the once clearly understood line that now blurred me with her.

I spent hours on the phone, my high came from feeling her acceptance of me, no longer the image of self destruction, I had molded myself into the doting mother and wife I thought she would approve.

She did. These marked my favorite years of being her daughter, friend, confidant, secret keeper. I slowly didn’t know how I would survive without her, and now I see all the failures were unconscious desires for her to save me, to love me, to accept me.

They were never enough.

Of course I am not God, nor do I have permission to know or judge anyone’s experience here, but I do have a theory. I believe my mother was so injured as a child, especially by her mother, she set out determined not to be her, picked the image that would suggest total security and protection against ever feeling that powerless and out of control again. It was the perfect image of the perfect love she would have wanted, the family she would have would bring her the happiness she desperately craved, and when it ended, so did she.

I believed anyone in a 34 year marriage to abruptly end in such a horrific way would lose themselves but I was determined she would become something even more wonderful than she could ever imagine or vision.

I believed I was the only one who could truly ease her pain. I now held the torch of her dream and I had to hold it high above, to always watch it burn or I would lose her, my heart trembled like that of an Olympic competitor, my whole life on the wait of one performance, the flame taunting me that if it fell, it would be all my fault.

And so I ran.

Every defense mechanism and coping skill came out in full force, the trauma just played over and over again, so I came to her aid, certain our love would conquer the world.

Somewhere I lost me in the process.

It wasn’t until I made the decision to go to school that the woman I imagined fled, my leaving her side suddenly became personal, long gone were the loving encounters, the hours of phone calls, the counsel, the suffocating thing I believed was called love.

I had been unable to function for two years of depression, had not developed any close relationships, began to check out while she seemed content to sit every day on my bed and cry, drink coffee, and discuss all the details of her marriage I believed were my responsibility to solve.

It is a painful thing to evolve. It is painful to let relationships die so we can be who we came here to be, but it is unescapable. We all wear the scars of being human and having lost something we can’t replace. I have found grieving a death is far easier than to grieve an illusion, a dream that was never meant to be, especially not for you. You know in your deepest place you are meant to write, create, love again, dream again, but you choose the illusion so that you can hold on tight to the thing that guarantees you not feel worthless, empty, destroyed, or alone.

Her problem was not that I didn’t love her. Her problem was that I wanted nothing to do with the image, and I was too tired to hold up a torch that didn’t even belong to me.

This had to have felt like a slap in the face, her own childhood issues not dealt with along with the shattering of her life with a man she loved for 34 years had to have brought out every fear imaginable, and still my heart cried, “But, what about me?”

I thought I could do both, but I was naive.

In the end, I had to choose.

I was so busy living this life and building my own dream, falling in love, making mistakes and rediscovering my Self when I had become able to objectively see the sickness as it was, an impossibility for her to accept.

I had been the one just like him, my Father, her ex, and I was now her source, so who was she now? I must be blinding to her, so like him I am, in my humor and eccentric love of risk and drive, determined to go up and down the roller coaster of life, emotionally charged, self gratifying, throwing out all the rules that she insisted kept me safe.

In loving me you must embrace the unknown, and even worse, your fears about it.

I had to face that these years were not about love, that I didn’t have a clue what love even was, for certainly when you break up with the man you love, are told what damage is being caused to your children for your dream, much less again and again told the reason you kept another human being alive, you must make a choice.

I watched the dream I supported and cheered for in the sidelines shatter, the pieces of me I didn’t know how to ever begin to rebuild, the shattered splinters of my worth, identity, and memory bank were damaged without any hope of repair.

In my desperation to understand what seems easy today was a nightmare, a rock that turned over every day with even worse dirt and more worms to crawl out. I was either naive or arrogant to believe I could face the run of an Olympian, for I had no idea what was before me, nor had I been given the training to face the lies and betrayals, shame, confusion, the fog of hurt was so heavy I was convinced I would never find my way out.

It was only when at night, thinking and turning, unable to sleep, hamsters in wheel lived in my head constantly, tormenting me with their squeaky annoying sounds. I had no echo to return back to me value, good or bad, a period of time I thought destroyed me actually brought me back to life.

In the fog of my sad lonely mind, I saw her.

She was there with a torch, a dream, but it was her race and only her own that mattered. She was not selfish or abusive, cruel or bad, but brave, her obstacles made the prize that much more beautiful, and so, I am determined to let the past settle with the dust from underneath my shoes, my broken heart softly weeps as I hold desperately to her flame.

Writing without any fear that I am hurting or destroying or selfish is a part of me I acknowledge, but as a separate piece, not me, just a watching critic reminding me of all the lies I have to release. I have never fully committed to writing the way I longed, for the fear of hurting her, the fear of my inner critic rearing his ugly head.

I never get this day back.

I am weary, far behind, unsure if I’m even ready for such a race, but today I honor my flame, the soul, the place dreams are born.

I’ve got promises to keep, miles to go before I sleep, a path to blaze, a future to claim, so for today, my critic, well,

Today he can just eat my dust……..

Related articles

• What Should I Do? (anitaanswersadvice.wordpress.com)
• A Mother’s Love (twincessmamma.wordpress.com)

It is as familiar as my own heartbeat these days, refusing to be ignored or escaped, and so I have given it the space it required of me, certain the lessons it held would set me free.

You know how you get on a roller coaster and the first hill comes, your hands tight on the bars, heart pounding, the drop in your tummy as you poke to the top, regret and panic fills as you put your hands up and shut your eyes?

That is how I feel right now, opening it and Facebook, all of your messages pouring in, many of you worried, some angry, a few curious to why and how I dropped off planet earth.

What do I say to you? How do I begin to address my gratitude and love for all of you, the very people I didn’t want to hurt or worry, indirectly or not. And even more, what do I owe you if anything?

How do I come back to all the demands and requests the world asks when I had become slave to the very ideas I have recently freed myself? How often have I regretted fitting into the mold of expectation in hopes to receive love and acceptance?

How am I to return?

These were the nagging questions swinging me from there to here and back, and finally I am certain I am ready. I feel like a different woman almost, and so many times I wanted to write and yet that nagging thought of who would read it and what would they say clouded my head with doubt. I have never written to an audience ever, and the thoughts and feelings I needed to work out were so confusing, so lost and injured that I worried, old familiar demons of rejection made me accept that not until I wrote only for myself would it be raw or therapeutic, and so I waited.

In that waiting period, I had made up my mind to begin a new blog, or write privately, until life threw itself at me in such a shocking blinding way that I shutter to think of writing it, the truth it will reveal, and so I decided to retire my writing, adamant it was for the best.

I knew better.

The real truth is I am afraid.

I am afraid of telling the truth.

I want to run and hide from the questions and looks I will not want to face from friends and loved ones, and so much easier it would be to start fresh, to begin a new way of being.

Oh, if only I could! The truth is that I have this annoying competitive edge with myself, an adrenaline rush I receive when I do something big and brave, like going to a Photography school without a camera.

It is a love/hate relationship, me and this damn blog. I tremble at it, certain I shall be attacked out the door by undercover Ninja warriors, people who read blogs and chop me to pieces in the comments section or worse, real life.

And the last few months have been so startling in change that I can hardly understand it, so wouldn’t I need to write a book? Whose business is it anyway?

Ha. I wish I could get off so easily, the other part of my mind argues, “No one has to read it then MISSS OBVIOUSSS, big pansy scaredy cat blog freak. Put on your big girl panties and go tell it like it is, not for them, but for you. I double dog dare youuuu!

My inner voice is annoying as shit, isn’t it?

The beginning of my search was a massive hunt to gather as much information as possible to put together an outline of my life, of childhood, to research and chart the missing pieces, my confusion had become an overwhelming force that almost kept my Spirit hostage, and so the feeling of urgency never left, not for a long time.

I gathered all my childhood journals, every email, all the pictures, got an app on my phone for talking into a voice recorder, my grief and pain at all hours was being fueled into my phone, words that sounded as if they came from a stranger the very next day.

Big wholes of time were emptied, Thelma my right arm along the way more times than I can count, in exasperation would say, “Katie, I just told you that. Don’t you remember?”

I would blink, stare at her, become afraid, and realize I had not, so eery grief can be.

You are in a tunnel and where it is leading or if you return doesn’t even matter. All the energy you have is to function day by day, my arms felt like ten pound weights had laid upon them to brush my teeth, so heavy my depression had become.

I no longer tasted food, all the smells of happy things like scented soap and strawberry ice cream were gone, and although I would never take my own life, I didn’t see the point in it.

I would watch people a lot, mothers and children and families especially.

Sometimes I watched in curiosity, my mind blank and heart numb as I sat in anticipation watch Dads help little ones drop DVD rentals in a slot, a basic errand run would be scrutinized by my own curiosity.

Others would trigger me, and so I would speak my anger or pain or grief into a tape recorder and laugh at the absurdity of it, my car parked in CVS where I cried for hours so my girls wouldn’t see.

It is strange to all of your life speak and hear an echo, to one day in drastic measure speak and yell, in horror and fright and denial when no sound made it’s appearance back to you.

And now, I smile upon how much this ached then for I see I desperately needed nothing to come back, no echo to distract me from the voice so used to being heard but not reached.

In my life, silence meant loyalty, love, acceptance of other’s faults and made you a good person who loved family and didn’t create drama.

It never occurred to me my voice had nothing to do with anyone but me.

That is a terrifying thought still for me.

Bad things happen when you say what you mean, and so I hid in Barnes N Noble, or the book I had been assigned, my soul drank in the words, the self help section became my actual shrink, my eyes blurry from reading till the doors closed.

In the beginning, I had a good idea what I thought was wrong, meaning I had diagnosed myself into every horrifying personality disorder there might be, my own physician argued back and forth with me, thankfully, certain I had no disorder other than being clinically depressed.

Damn. More reading for me, I thought.

Thelma read more than me, coming up with everything she could on topics from Narcissism in families to Personality Disorders and Cognitive Therapy. I swear the girl has missed her calling, a statement she smirks at and rolls her eyes, but I stand strong in my opinion of her. She has a gift and her sharing it was God’s gift to me.

I was terrified of women, especially her, the mannerisms she used and the love I so greatly felt for her were too familiar to my own mother, and so we struggled, both uncertain how our friendship could even maintain my own confusion, her responsibility, our boundaries between friendship and work partners and sisters felt like an overwhelming weight we both did not know how to carry.

And somehow, she held on.

Somehow, I let her.

We took some well needed space as well, an important mark in my recovery to not worry what she or anyone thought. I tasted, smelled, played, and explored like a child, all my thoughts were my own, and I did not dismiss them.

I gave them permission to be heard, loved, and accepted.

This sounds like a simple easy thing but for me, a child rejected and not accepted in a full blown tide of Narcissism and Codependent Dysfunction her entire life, had to work hard, my mind pulsing with exhaustion at one more thought of another day to get through.

I had lost myself, and I see now the most important thing besides going to school was starting this blog for as in my hundreds of journals, writing is where I don’t pretend, please, defend, or hide. It is where I find salvation, breath, and healing.

It is the very thing that cost me everything I once held valuable, and everything I once thought valuable told me if I had value, acceptance, love, or worth. So, in choosing it, I chose myself, and for that, I owe it my all.

I owe it the truth.

And so I begin, this next phase will be to tackle it head on without any filter, the only thought that makes me feel a little less like vomiting is this one.

What if I had stumbled upon a blog where some chick had done the same thing? How much that thought brings me hope, for I would have been eternally grateful for anyone stumbling through the dark of dysfunction and seclusion. I would have torn their blog apart, post by post, my own wound is more about lack of validation than anything.

Just once, I wanted to hear or read, “Oh, I have been through that.”

To not be judged or accused or attacked but simply validated that another soul understood is worth maybe one, just one, feeling that way as well.

And so I press forward, in humble faith that you will love me no matter what I reveal, and then I remember, again and again, I am loved because I am.

That is enough.

I love these lyrics I saw posted on another blog,

“There’s a light  at each end of this tunnel
You shout ’cause you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out
And these mistakes you’ve made, you’ll just make them again
If you only try turning around

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer
Inside me threatening the life it belongs to

And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
‘Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them however you want to.

Why you may ask, Miss Obvious, do you not love hot dogs burning, beer cans opening, crowds of sweating hot hairy people cheering for the U.S.A.?

Well, if you didn’t ask, I still am going to tell you.

It’s not just July 4th, it is almost all the holidays, so I do not discriminate.

Except for Christmas and Halloween, I get a little irritation, like a bad itch you can’t scratch, for most of these national Holidays.

Thanksgiving annoys me because it is built on a total lie, and yes, it had to be my child who dressed like a pilgrim told her teacher that Indians had not been our friends, that this was a rewritten day in history, a gaslight attempt to brainwash generations of children into believing we shared corn and a turkey to distract them from the fact we stole, murdered, and raped land that was never ours to own in the first place. Thanksgiving should be the day we donate a dollar at Kroger for the “Trail of Tears” day, but would all the Native American Indians even want a day off while bitter entitled grossly overweight Americans bitch the one day that year we acknowledge the truth of our ancestors?

God forbid “Heavenly Ham” go out of business.

No, we would rather get even more fat, bitch and moan in traffic to get off work to watch our even more overweight kids pretend to be Indians as we clap and clap, ready to eat in reminder of how wonderful we were to the Indians, who were our friends.

So, wave a flag, today is July 4th.

Maybe it is the Champion, the personality type Thelma read me, the idealist who hates conformity, who from Gandhi to Riots, is the perfect trail blazer type, must question authority and convention at all cost.

Or maybe I just got out of an elevator, a lover of people I truly am, but people, I got stuck for two whole minutes with “Americans,” meaning full blown “AMERICAN” people.

I was getting my mac fixed, in a hurry, am a huge hater of malls, a debt infested flea market for empty starving souls called “Shoppers,” all my shopping is online or Target, to live is to be free of American people roaming the mall, in my opinion.

The mom, 100 pounds overweight in her mom jeans under her saggy boobs was a blinking flag, seriously. If the power had gone out in the building, the woman could have powered the city of Atlanta in her flair alone, bright blinking flag earrings and vest, wristwatch with red and blue diamonds in the shape of a fucking FLAG, people. Her husband, checked out and gazing at the buttons like he were in a logic puzzle, had on his matching “Independence Day” get up.

A hat with “USA” embroidered and Dad jeans with zero expression, his voice as flat as an 8 year old girl’s chest, in a drawl, said, “You going up?”

No. I’m riding a pony to deliver a letter from Paul Revere to the government who by the way, would never lie to your beautiful 100 pound baby with chocolate all over his face, with American flags even attached to the stroller with get this, duct tape.

What is more American than that?

The baby dropped it’s ice cream, began screaming for the government approved baby killer unnatural and toxic treat, bought from people who are responsible for cancer and breast growth in six year olds, but hey, It’s America.

This is while the ten year old fat kid in tight shorts and man boobs began jumping up and down, shaking the elevator, making the baby scream louder.

The mom, or the fattest Statue of Liberty I ever saw, began ripping through her purse like a terrorist had just been announced over the mall intercom system, which in Georgia, I bet they have a 10,000 dollar tax exempt sprinkler service instead.

The kid got louder, the boy jumped harder and the mom got better and better “treats” out of her purse, bribery the kids knew too well, slapping gum out of her hand, only stopping for her iphone with literally, American flags bedazzled on to the phone case, a “you know how it is” look given, the kid throwing it on the ground right as the door opened.

Damn. I was behind them.

Two full minutes later as they shuffled their fat asses and shopping bags out the elevator, the epiphany comes.

“Dear God, you really took an elevator to go one floor?“

One trip real quick to the mall and all brain cells evaporate, really?

I had not noticed, or even questioned the absurdity of it, until fifteen minutes later, I squeezed my way into the Mac store, given an electronic waiting number, video games, angry tired children crying, blinking lights, 100 blue tooth talking motherfuckers later, I am just glad to be alive.

I don’t know if I want to be watching fireworks with these people, but my kids are always the interest at hand, and fireworks they love, so I guess I am grateful to be out of the mall alive, to be stuck back in traffic, with more road rage, failing gas prices, and more shopping malls building per millisecond.

Last year I was on a lawn with 100s of people singing the National Anthem leading right into Killing in the Name, the best Phish 4th of July party ever.

“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” was the sound system of freedom and truth ringing in my ear, people gathered to dance and yell, hug and shout, all in unity, rhythm, and love.

You can celebrate the freedom of what this country represents, or speak of the atrocities of what it has done, but either way, wave your flag or blast Rage Against the Machine, Happy 4th of July, America.

God Bless all of the blind, rich, intolerable, overindulged, self righteous, sheep of America, myself included, for the land of the brave, and the home of the free.

Instead of Amen, we should all let out a loud, Bahhhhahhhhahhha.

Related articles

• T-Shirt of the Day Award for Independence Day! (lol-teez.com)
• Steal of the Day: Vivre American Flag Pillow (casasugar.com)
• Gretchen Rossi Is Poolside Patriotic (socialitelife.com)

HELL NO.

I got sick to death of the leach energy stealing time and life draining emotional vampires that I had come to a good place, deciding to become a more balanced and aware person of where my time and attention went.

Then, a few facebook stalking fools and a psycho date here and there along with a family fallout made me discover I wasn’t that at ALL, I had been naive, an open target to all who wanted to dump any problem. When I found out from Thelma, who looked at me confused once, as I vented about how much I didn’t want to discuss this or that, she said something brilliant, or known, who knows.

“You do know you don’t have to tell anyone anything you don’t want to tell, right?”

What? What the hell is she talking about? I thought.

“Wait a minute, come on. You have to know that when people ask questions, even if I am uncomfortable, I know it is because I am so open, I mean my life is already a public blog so I rarely complain, right?”

She didn’t agree, which shocked me. She said who gave a damn, I owed nothing to anyone, and my life was my own, and this was a boundary problem.

Holy Shit. She was right.

I enjoy writing, and my own words, by myself, and I like looking back later and reading stories of my girls, my life is as surprising to me as a stranger, my memory of yesterday, is

Wait. What happened yesterday?

See what I mean. But, I don’t enjoy discussing these private issues or being distracted or feeling angry I wasted time on people who didn’t even care. This is the new me, I thought, glaring down the grocery clerk who usually tells me to put back items cause they were not on sale. Sometimes I do, just because it makes her feel better, and I don’t mind.

Not anymore.

I do mind.

I do have a filter, I just didn’t know I was allowed to use it.

Plus, the displaced anger is helping this, since finding out this past year that most humans appeared to be blood sucking vampires that would eat your heart and vomit back what they didn’t want, leaving you broken, hurt, destroyed, as they appeared content, as long as the next victim was lined up first, proving your love never even mattered.

I promised myself to protect the little girl in me that felt so unsafe and powerless to never believe she was entitled to anything private, or that would mean she wasn’t loving.

I thought having your own private life or dreams and experiences made you a withholding unloving fake, someone who lived a lie or a secret, so I offered up all information to anyone I met, so they would know how honest I am.

I have liked this but have been a little bit angry and more cynical than usual, my guard up, ready to put the “STRANGER DANGER” cross X with my hands, any person walking towards me for any reason was not going to be aware I wasn’t a fool, that I saw straight past their bullshit.

So, today I got up early for Jury Duty, the last crazy I attracted, recorded and blogged should tell you I knew this was the prime place to be prime pickings for the crazy, so I had a game plan folks.

It was kind of fun. I feel like a detective.

I walked in, scanned the room, full of people, a thrilling thought at one time, but that was the old me, you see. I saw the old nanny chatty Kathy’s in the back, the old man going on and on to a row of people about his many jury duties experience, like he was some expert.

I saw the young mom types and thought about it.

Nah, they will ask questions about the kids.

I saw the classic men cub with earphones in, eyes shut.

Damn, why hadn’t I thought of it?

I saw the old me, the few acting as if they had just been introduced to a soul mate because they found out they all lived right next to some school.

No shit, people. We are all here from the same county, duh. My cynicism felt like an umbrella, protecting me from a hurricane. Not too reliable, but it at least had a hopeful plan.

SO, I saw a woman quietly reading who looked as exciting as a librarian at a night club, picked my target seat, no one else would be able to sit on an end seat even better, so yes, this was it.

Is this how introverts work normally? I just wondered that actually and I find it interesting.

She didn’t look up. Perfect. Whew. I was doing great, especially without a laptop, which made me pissy, not knowing you could bring one, but being not a morning person and already grouchy helped.

Until that damn receptionist lady, who had been the same one for my divorce, who I wanted to scream “I KNOWWW YOU!!!!!” loud with enthusiasm, like she would give a damn, so I squirmed.

Didn’t even say a word. Getting good, people, getting real good.

Then, we were issued a seat number where the dude said we would have to make real close friends with the person on the left and right, and my stomach sank.

Shit. I got nervous. What if I got the crackhead in the back, talking non stop, asking questions, or the god awful lady at the coffee station, all nosy, telling people they needed to try her cream from home, which she brought in her purse.

So of course, I heard my name, told myself to focus not look up, watch for sudden conversation starters and look at book at all questions. Repeat, I thought, Repeat.

And yes, of course, I sit down look up and a man my age in a blue shirt tight around his muscles with a nice tan and pearly white teeth smiles.

Fuck.

Oh, look to the right, look to the right, I thought, and damn if the Universe isn’t a pain in my ass but there sat a man cub, emerald green eyes sparkling with humor, looking like his mom just dressed him, all uncomfortable and ADHD in his seat.

Fuck me.

I sat down, stone cold.

No one said a word, and I felt like I was about to explode from holding in about a zillion comments, jokes, thoughts, questions, all banging up and down, asking to get out, then pleading.

“Hey,” sexy blue shirt man said, in a low whisper.

“You think they would let a Government High School teacher out of this on his only break, ya know?” He was holding a phone with an adorable photo of his little boy.

I smelt friendly, nice, interesting, and harmless.

So, the bubble burst. “You teach High School? What grade? Do you love it? Did you always know?“

My natural curiosity led to many interesting topics and man cub entered in by saying, “Dude. My mom had to pick me up from Athens last night just to get me here on time.”

He listened to my recent adventure of the crazy woman and how I almost went to jail for missing (http://buddhathepig.wordpress.com/2011/05/04/jury-duty-and-my-new-nickname-miss-geraldo-rivera/) and laughed his ass off, and before you know it, we got dismissed but a few of us stayed behind to finish the documentary below, a great documentary on a underwater scuba diver, which I added at end for your enjoyment.

When we departed, I was a little sad, wishing we had exchanged facebook requests.

And now, looking back, as I read this, I am beginning to see the lesson.

I don’t have to lose who I am to not get hurt. That alone makes me want to join a Gospel choir, my joy and relief that I am growing, not drowning, the sad fact is while in the lesson, it is hard to know the difference.

And then, in my bunk bed, Lola who requested we share the bottom in the month of June and the top the month of July, is the best roommate I ever had.

Almost asleep, thumb in mouth, eyes closed, she whispered, “Mommy.”

“Yes baby?” I was reading a self help book with the lamp on.

“You can cuddle with me any time, okay?“

Broken hearts do heal, not over night, but holding her and thinking of my day reminded me of all that comes when you adhere to your own personal truth and convictions. It is worth all the loss, all the broken pieces, for the courage to be one’s true self is the battle, the hope that sits on your baby’s long gorgeous eyelashes, with the moon out, dolls on the ends of your feet, for if you just look, you will find it.

Hope is the ability to test all you know to become all who you always wanted to become. And if I find this is not the case, I at least know one thing for sure.

Next month I get to be on the top bunk, and if the Universe crumbles around me, I have already what really matters in life.

Related articles

• My jury duty experience (stormyscorner.com)

Oh Lord, am I expecting hate mail for this one.

NOPE. Not from family members but you, dear readers.

You see, the day is “BITTER” because my mom said we would always celebrate this day, and how awful it had to come NOW, the way things are. We were planning on getting with my Aunt and drinking margaritas, mom swore she was not going to be a pansy.

She was going to chug margaritas and clink glasses, and I have never seen such a thing people, ever. It is kind of like knowing the biggest whirpool in the Universe was right in your back yard but you moved two weeks before you saw it.

Kind of.

My grandmother is dead, and thank God for that.

This is where I get used to the hazing, and it confused me as a child, all the shocked and horrified faces when I said, “Oh, COME ON. You HAVE to go to a Grandma’s house! What did you do to deserve something awful like that?”

I was always blubbering out the worst things a kid could say, but honestly, my respectful mother was the one I had to cover for, whenever Grammy was around.

She is possibly evil.

I don’t know. Chucky was evil and he didn’t seem so bad in comparison. (For all the linears and logicals out there, first of all, why would you even be reading my blog? Second, I have proof and I will call them in. It has been done already so don’t go there.)

She couldn’t stand the sight of children, especially the three of her own, blew smoke towards the babies when my mom would request her smoke outside, and out of spite or insanity, ashed on her head instead, giving the infamous “ASH HEAD” nick name, my pet name for the lady since little.

Well, maybe she won’t complain about having to wash her hair, as if you had shot her dog, when you came to visit once a year.

She is notorious for making people cry, like on their wedding day, and is a complete pathological liar, so much that as a child when she told everyone my little cousin poked out all the eyes in her antique dolls, I knew it was a lie, but I wondered secretly if it were fun.

Every year this woman would come down for Christmas in a fur that could free Haiti and a rock on her hand big enough to cause tendonitis, and she would swirl and pose, telling everyone what her husband bought.

He would not look up from the paper out of interest in his cold beer or out of spite to her, while I would open the annual ugly antique lace scary doll, while all the boys got racing cars. I did secretly bang one against a concrete floor, but it didn’t even chip, my irritation now rage as she pushed me out the door telling me not to drop that gorgeous antique, a precious breakable heirloom.

I was 14, people.

Grammy wore gaudy rings and minks but didn’t change shoes or pants for years, bragging to people that, “SEEEEeee. I have HAD these for nearly 18 years,” pointing to her nasty blue shoes, putting the plate down for Amos the dog to lick, then to put up in the cabinet as if it were clean.

Don’t yell at me, people. It is true. She even used cooking wear to scoop poop and wash with a linen cloth and put back in the drawer. “A dog’s mouth is much cleaner than yours honey,” she would painfully pat my head as I gagged.

As we all did, every time we had to go there, for every freakin holiday, my baby bro would gag and run home sometimes, the yellow jacket bees in the “Blueberry Delight” were as fun as my high school friend who barfed cause she swore she had swallowed a lougie, which could have happened, but maybe it was two year old Christmas coke in 18th century glasses that did it.

She pulled the scam of all scams and stole all the money from under her brother’s nose while getting old blind grampy to sign on the dotted line, half blind, a Scarlet O’hara would be fitting, but she is at least beautiful. She still believes she is on Como plantation, says the most hateful things about black people, and oh, cops, but that was just to piss my mom off, a proud mom of a cop.

“What an idiot for not making any damn money,” she would say, under her breath so only mom and I could catch it. Maybe that was because my bro was getting rebellious about then over thank you cards. You got half the money every holiday if you forgot the year before. She made sure to openly proclaim this fact, handing over 100, if you were married, 50 if in school, unless the thank you deduction, and my mom and aunt got ten.

That was good times, for you should see the plant my mom got once.

Faking tears for funerals were her charm, the last one she really got crabby about, her dead husband. My uncle would put on a show and bow to kiss the coffin, knowing I was peeing on myself in the front row trying to hold back the laughter.

That lady lived long enough to throw oranges at her black nurses, and to her death, treasured her bed from Como, with a bullet hole in it from some ancestor being shot in it. She really did love those ugly ass black pots, turning them over to show the price.

So she kicked it after many years of our suffering, and I am nowhere near the celebration hall, the small club of giddy people who lived this hysterical nightmare. In despite of myself, I can be a good sport on this one. “Cheers to you mom, wherever you drink your margarita, and know I am raising my glass, as planned!”

On three, three, two, one and hit it………

“Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is deaadddd!!”

“Mom, is it Sammy?“

He died two years ago, my 14 year old dog.

“Mom, you can put these blankets around your shoulders to make it all fancy,” Lola consoles, of course, by fashion wear. She once told me she was in my tummy and the whole time she was thinking, “When, oh when, are they going to let me change my clothes!”

Kat studies me when I cry, analytically, like she has never seen my face before, or if she were logically counting tear drops for a homework assignment.

The only thing worse than having a broken heart is your kids knowing it.

Then, they put on my “favorite” song, despite the fact I hate Katy Perry, go figure, and did a dance show until I laughed so hard the snot didn’t even bother me, the pain burning in my heart was numbed like someone slapped vapor rub on it.

Before you know it, the moment passed, they were fighting over the wi remote, my puffy eyes are all thats left, and I say loudly, “Act like a real writer!“

I was going to write about something serious today, and actually you know, edit, or read it, for the love of God.

I was, I REALLY was, but I found this in my email account, no date, before I had a blog I suppose.

“Wow. So, we were running a “CRYSTAL GIRL” errand, which Kat, Lola, sometimes Nana and I, are the Crystal Girls, an exclusive group, and Kat and I start scheming. So, I say, “Kat, you know where B lives?”

“Whittaly.” No, I say, “FLORIDA,” with a smile. Lola first says, ”When I see that nice man B, I am gonna kiss and love him and hug him” she said, eyes so big!

Kat said, “Yeah, and HE is a NICE man, and DADDY likes him, and on the chatter went…
Then it hit.
Lola crumples her face and says, “And B will NEVER ever Eat Bad Stuff and TURN his HEART BLACK and leave us or die, Mommy! NEVER, EVER!”
Knocked the wind out of me…… 

I pulled into the QT and parked the car, and looked at her.

“Lola, love, tell me where it hurts.” She shook her head, “NO!”
Kat put her hand on Lola, who put her head into the leather, and I said, “Lola, my heart hurts because of Papa, does yours?”
She gave me one eye from her pudgy baby hands, peeking in, through the tears. “And I don’t know if Daddy or Nana or my boyfriend B will die or leave, but…”
I was about to launch into one of my Mommy speaches, and I am one of those moms that has to annoy even a seven year old to death to make sure its all said,
so Kat interrupted, “Lola, she said.. You’ll always have me.”
And they hugged and I wept.

This morning ended up a lot like that, no babies, now big girl dance queens, in my heels and sunglasses, on a fake stage, but even the same, it hit today. And no mommy was there to give a fake speech, but who needs fake speeches, and living dogs, old boyfriends, dads, holidays, phone calls or birthday parties? Not me. It is far overrated when you have Katy Perry twins, singing badly and loudly, my words from the email blurred into one as I cried all over again, reading the last line.

And they hugged and I wept.

Related articles

• For all the broken, a love letter. (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
• My Mother’s Day Gift (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
• Spring Break Sex Discussions (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)

Then, my job, my therapist, the first assignment of having to put my picture in a frame, to “say nice things” to the little girl within.

I have been assigned to bring her treats, people.

I want to draw a mustache, give her a bottle of jager, tell her to sleep it off, but even that I have been procrastinating. Thelma and I can’t let the jokes go long enough to be serious.

But, what lies in the pit of my stomach, aching to be expressed, scratching my inner thoughts like a claw to a kitty pole, is my sister by soul, Heather Murphy.

She asked I use her real name.

You see, this woman, a friend of mine by a year or so, although sorrow tells time in a different way, if you ask me. Time is measured by the stories we share, the pieces we let strangers see, the depth of us that loved ones may go to the grave never shown. They can know all our traits, but pass right by us, strangers to the stories we hold locked..

It is a key we share, and so time becomes marked by who is given a key, and who is hidden as we hide the key away, under the mat of our hearts.

Heather’s child, Olivia Garcia, at one years old, was murdered by her best friend, involuntary manslaughter, the details horrifying, and to make it even more ghastly, extremely public.

Her once dear friend, Oliva’s Godmother, Amanda Brumfield, is the estranged daughter of Billy Bob Thornton, so my stomach sickens as I watch my cursor spell his name, blink and wave, my thoughts on this blog run rapidly through emotions, on a time belt I can’t control the speed.

Olivia, who died the day before her first birthday, I revisited a year ago in a blog, “Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy“, being careful to not disclose any information that might affect her trial.

Now the trial is over, Heather’s reality is a hell not only she had to revisit on stand, not allowed to cry, having to see this woman who hurt her baby, witness photos no mother can imagine, swallow guilt that no person should have to endure, not by media, not for this.

I have a new outlook on life because of her, on what we read, on money and fame, magazines, news feed and journalists. It makes me sick.

Divorcee casually discussed the trial while reading People Magazine on-line, my knees giving out, blood rushing to my head, forcing me to sit down. I had not yet known the verdict.

“Wow. Thirteen to Thirty years for Involuntary Manslaughter,” he gasped.

I blurred the news with my hands, hoping to filter anything I could not handle in the moment, when one teeny thing caught my eye.

A fucking Facebook “Like” button, that’s what.

What have we come to? I could piss fire on this moment alone, much less the public misinformation, the reality of her nightmare, her agony that Baby Liv is googled, and all her name shows are Billy Bob Thornton photos and media accounts of this woman, this daughter of a celebrity, estranged.

Heather Murphy, a victim, is a person, real to me, your sister, friend, boss. To see her agonized if she should do “Inside Edition” for they will ask her God knows what, for news, while she worries she will be seen as a mother wanting her moment in the public eye. Then, she feels sadness and anger, Baby Liv is not even seen as a little girl, her girl, a sissy lost forever, and the sentence Heather received will never end, not ever. She wants her baby to be seen, her voice heard, to matter.

And so, she is asking me to help her with the day she does speak, to the jury, to the world, and so, “Will I take photos of her baby things, her little keepsakes only a mommy can cry upon knowing the importance, the ashes, the memory book?”

I cry at just the thought of what it must feel to be her, and fear it just as much, then my own wretched hope that she be heard is an aching tunnel, a hollow echo, a dark hall I know she walks every day, but will people turn, look, turn on the light?

I don’t know.

Maybe not, but I will light a torch, for Olivia Garcia, will use my keystrokes, my camera, my voice, my outrage. I will burn the hall behind me, no father or a platform, nothing of importance to offer the public, no dirt to offer the media to eat, a dry dust in my mouth is the Ribeye steak they drool for, and yet, always hungry, never satisfied.

No one wants to be famous for this, and Olivia is gone, a discussion for people over breakfast, her pain raw as an unbeaten egg in your blender, the details of her dead child a passing discussion, while passing the butter.

I do know what I don’t have, but there is one thing I got.

I have love.

In the end, it is all life is worth.

For Heather, I will always answer “yes,” her wedding to a man I saw her meet, I am so thankful to photograph, even if it is heartbreaking to watch her plan, the details Bridezillas go nuts over, she hasn’t the energy to even care.

While I was thinking of this, this song came on, chilling me, her words etched in my heart over the phone, “You know,” she said.

“It will be the sentencing, but really, it will be my arrival to her second funeral.”

If you will, repost, stumble, and most of all, pray.

I strongly believe prayer is the bullet on which our voice rides, and this woman needs ammo, the only kind love is made from.

Related articles

• For all the broken, a love letter. (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
• Amanda Brumfield, Billy Bob Thornton’s Daughter, Guilty of Manslaughter (inquisitr.com)
• Billy Bob Thornton’s Estranged Daughter Found Guilty Of Aggravated Manslaughter (huffingtonpost.com)
• Billy Bob Thornton’s daughter guilty of manslaughter (thestar.com)
• Billy Bob Thornton’s daughter found guilty of manslaughter in toddler’s death (news-briefs.ew.com)
• Billy Bob Thornton’s Daughter Convicted Of Manslaughter In Death Of Baby (dreamindemon.com)

“Call me Cheezy, Call me a Fool,

I like my men Nerdy, my chicken Spicy,

dr. P is my h20, the fizzy saliva I call Drool.

crafts, apps, and starbucks be my positive Blood Type

juicy coutore, from goodwill, is the toilet Fabric of my Wipe.

widgets, strobes, tumbler, are equal to my Jizz

But nothin in life don’t thrill me, like a Thelma “Personality Quizz.”

That, was for the Premium Members, a special rap, since I forgot to send your newsletter out last month. Oh, wait, I did.

It was titled, “Bend Over.”

For the less wealthy of you, I am giving a special top ten best ways to bend over just for you, for subscribing today.

Now, back to Thelma, who gives the greatest quizzes, not Cosmo style, but usually discovering if you are Narcissistic, Borderline, Schitzoid, ADD, a huge lover of psychology, we talk “Silence of the Lambs” until the sun goes down.

I’m her perfect crazy friend, which she makes me laugh so much from her astonishment over the last six months getting to know me, has been,

“Huh. Um, so, you do actually stop talking?”

“OMG. I see it. I think you talked like a fast maniac only when your nervous!”

“Wait a second, wait a minute. Her big psychological discovery today was that I might actually, well, she hates to tell me, but, logical.”

I laughed in her face. She explained the rational brain, how it works, how I like sequence and organized plans, was book smart, and bigger words to basicly say I could possibly be linear.

The Collector says in fact I am, but I just don’t know when it’s happening.

So, we took the “Please Understand Me II, Personality Quiz” and we are eerily similar, a page separating us, just into a healer, and me, the Champion.

Turns out that little quiz described me perfectly, even to myself, and with exception to the several Thelma grunts over the shit she calls “negative” and “harsh” compared to the other types list of traits.

It turns out only a few percent, a rare amount of “Champions” are out there, people who take pride in a cause, will stop at nothing to create emotional experiences to lead for personal growth, can be vivacious and rowdy, getting everyone hurdled together for a meeting, but forget to actually plan it.

Out of all the types, the “Champion” hates conformity, subordination, although a pleaser of people and crowds, finds purpose and meaning in standing for something, if not everything.

Well, seeing as I have never been a conformist, love passionate Spiritual leaders and can write a mean rap, it takes Thelma in 70 questions, totals up the embodiment of my Spirit.

I love studying the way people think, and it helps, to study our many porcupines in life, to make us aware that they are as important in their ideals and beliefs as we are, that they matter, that we are part of a big unit, not one not affecting the other, and vice versa.

I kind of like being a “Champion,” annoying her already I’m sure, my 800 dollar computer cost a manager took care of, my text in high “Champion” style, was pouting in a three hour Kroger line not much after,discussing all the people’s lives in the small circle of strangers waiting for blood pressure medicine, vitamins for pregnancy, allergy relief, and unfortunately for them, I have come down with the usual ADD, or blabber mouth.

I should have told them to sign up for my plan, to see if my issue of ways to “Bend Over,” could entice them to heal arthritis, hay fever, too much salt.

Every Champion needs a cause, I just can’t decide which one is worthy.

That’s what I have Thelma for, and thank God, people, for that.

Related articles

• 7 Travel Quizzes To Take & Improve Your Travel IQ (makeuseof.com)
• Suggestions (macnomics.wordpress.com)
• Psychology Quizzes (psychology.about.com)

Related articles

• Is it time to leave your therapist? (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
• Top 7 Therapy Myths Debunked (webmd.com)
• My New Therapy (atleastihaveanexcuse.wordpress.com)

I have grieved hot collar soaked tears for accusations of my writing being “abusive” and “selfish,” a deer in massive confusion, headlights, big moving powerful blows to the body and soul have come out of nowhere, just me, licking my wounds, wondering what the fuck just happened.

If only I had been hit by a car.

I was afraid the intentions of my heart would never be shown, that if being known for 33 years brought this much adversity over my views on life and my journey, and I had lost valuable relationships because of that, well, I just gave up.

I gave in.

Beautiful things occurred as well, not just my relationship with Thelma, or the promise of our hard work beginning to take exciting new turns, my girls a daily part of me now, and sleep, I had gotten down to three numbers on my phone, even that had felt overwhelming.

The best news is that Lola and I share a room, and bunk beds, a post I can’t wait to write, for another day.

Tonight is about the pull to myself, writing being the nucleus to my soul, and I made a decision to that soul, the shame, the fear.

I will write, rather it be harmful, selfish, abusive, or cruel.

I am not responsible for the people I have caused pain, for they chose to read, and they chose to leave. I am only responsible for me, and if one day, I see that I was wrong, I will write about that as well, asking all my jurors and God, supposedly the ultimate Judge, for forgiveness.

I got a letter from my father, just a few hours ago, hence my inability to sleep, my frustration over my first post written with joy in my mind is now erased, his words replaced.

I have no doubt in my vulnerability been seen or read, and even with that, I ask how writing this horrible little blog could ever have served me, for if I were selfish, I would have kept my secrets and image, my relationships in tact, my little lie of a life safe.

Not today, nor tonight, the wound so deeply cut I want to run and run, like Jenny in Forrest Gump, get on a bus and ask God to make me a bird to fly far far away, a fist of stones I would throw, straight at him for wanting to hurt me again and again, straight at her for saying she loved me, when I weep for like a little girl, I don’t even care..

I want my mommy to tell me love is something real.

And she won’t even pick up the phone, nor return my last email, in which I begged like a pathetic teen for a boy who didn’t love her, to come back, to just please forget it all, say she was sorry, and do the right thing.

“Come back to me,” I cry, and she isn’t and won’t, the reality I sit in tonight, wondering what the fuck this God means by salvation, love, mercy, and hope, the very things she taught me, all the verses memorized still run through my mind.

I know something amazing will show up from this, in my silly positive little jar of bullshit or fath that removes all mountains, which I don’t know, but I will hold on to it, and wait.

If I can get through this night, the loss, the silence, maybe just maybe, God will arrive.

Voices laugh and snarl that I am an idiot to hope, not for one more soul, but tonight I climb on the top bunk, as promised, with Lola, who along with Kat, are the best things I ever did.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?” I had the night light on so I could read the other night.

Her little red head popped over the top bunk, and she put her hands up in animation, “YOU are the best roomie I could ever have. I could just cry over how you made our room so fancy.”

I had given Kat her own bedroom, for which she in exasperation and tears, rightfully claimed her sister could not respect her stuff, talked too much, was messy, and stole her things.

She has become alive in my room, while Lola, in a room with my heels and real make up and art supplies, chats and chats, both of us in constant trouble for forgetting over and over again, to not talk.

I had thought just the other day, how I was ready to come back, to write about how no woman in a house full of treasure and closets as big as my room had what I had.

My heart is broken as well as my silly dreams but I will not let them take my joy.

I will die before I give it away, and if it takes all that I am and have, I will not just survive this, I will float.

The first thing I wrote on the Happy Wall is appropriate now, its message I never knew would vibrate so strongly, “God doesn’t give us victory over war. He raises us off the batte field.”

Good night, dear cyber hearts, I need you more than ever, and it is an honor to return to you, for you have been loyal on your end, and I deserve that gift, and hope and pray I am not what they say, but that someone out there, in this cold heartless world, will be seen, changed, not alone, soothed, or inspired.

It is all I have left.

Related articles

• Annihilation (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
• Introducing “The Other Woman” (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)
• My Mother’s Day Gift (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)

Too much Panty, Not enough Granny

Since family members strongly oppose to me writing about my personal life, so much so that I get deleted off facebook, even by my auntie, and Divorcee too, well, one might take this as an opportunity to throw a pity party or if PMS could be blamed, could be fair gain for a smear campaign.

Not this chick.

No, I decided it is past due time to put on my Granny panties, a term I threw in by no accident since the number one search term to find this ridiculous blog is “Granny Panties,” which has me far more bitter.

Seriously guys?

800 searches for Granny Panties?

I don’t even know when or why I wrote about such a thing, and I find this far more disturbing for any future sex life I wish to have, until I looked farther and found the search terms “killing people and putting them in dryers,” “penis shaped rice krispie treats,” “vietnamese men and how to excite them,” and a SHOUT OUT now…
For the poor person looking for her lost dog, try Craig’s list or your neighborhood vet.
For a week now, “please help me find my puppy,” and “where is my poor doggy” and “what to do when doggy doesn’t come home” can’t be daily coincidences, so if this finds you person with lost dog, please go to Google or yell down the street..

You’re breaking my heart.

I can’t say much about anything shaped like a penis much less as tasty as a Rice Krispie, nor have I dated a Vietnamese man, but whoever is wondering how to kill people by putting them in a dryer, you need serious help.

Haven’t you ever watched “CSI” or “America’s Most Wanted” for Christ’s sake?

If you plan on murdering by dryer, which is probably tough, what are you going to do?
Throw in some Snuggle dryer sheets so the body smells like a powdered baby’s ass?

Why the dryer?

I loved all the Rob Dyrdek searches, the one lady who wrote “single mom of four needs Rob Dyrdek’s sex machine” which is a lot of words for a search, but if you have four kids, again, I suggest Craig’s list.

I wonder if Craig’s List has families in need of a writer, a Historian, a poet or a rapper, yes, I do rhyme, after a jager bomb or two. I was thinking of starting a Facebook Fan Page for all people who have been deleted off facebook, not by a friend or an ex, but an elite group for family deletions.

We could get matching tshirts and swap recipes and stories of when and how the deletion occurred, perhaps a prize or a week with an adopted family could bring tears to the eye, like that “America…”

Dang it. What is that show? It’s the Tye guy who remodels homes for poor and needy people?
You know, “MOVE THAT BUS,” and everyone sobs and cries, while the entire town cheers as families that lost parents and are law abiding citizens get amazing homes paid in full?

Yeah, just like that.

America can vote, the fan who has the most bad ass deletion story by family will obviously win, and maybe some generous Tye type, even though I heard he was an alcoholic by Divorcee, who knows these sorts of things..

will buy him or her a steak dinner somewhere fancy.

We’ll set up a webcam and maybe not yell ‘MOVE THAT BUS,” but something more like, “CUT THAT STEAK!!”

Then, the sky will open and Granny Panties will fall, Rob Dyrdek will come out with Rice Krispie shaped dongs, Vietnamese men will surround the building, and some poor woman will have found her dog.

Don’t quit your day job, Tye.
I kind of like the idea of making dreams come true, one deleted fan at a time….

Related articles

• Two Words: Granny Panties (gloganvlog.com)
• Annoying Female Products (bipolarvixen.com)
• These Cheeks ain’t seen nothing yet! (sotidbits.wordpress.com)