I have had enough.

I have been spreading my wings.

No, actually, I have been staking my claim.  On my life.

I have spent an incredible amount of time in my life not rocking the boat.  Keeping my opinions to myself, agreeing to keep the peace, and going along with the status quo even when it really just rocked my core.

Know how well that worked for me?  It landed me in the hospital.

It was that fateful day in the hospital a friendship was born.  Via Facebook and text messages, I reconnected with a friend from high school.  He threatened to kick my ass, because I was being stupid.  I told him to get fucked.  It was destined to be love.

The conversations continued outside the hospital, and progressed from text message to phone calls.  Long phone calls.  Three hour phone calls.  We felt something.  We made plans for me to come see him.

It was as good in person as it was over the phone.  We laughed, we talked till all hours of the night.  it was fun, and easy and perfect.

And then life interfered.  He got busy with family, I started therapy, he got a job, I juggled the girls schedules.  The phone calls stopped, the text messages dwindled.  I tried to keep it going, but it was clear his life was too busy, too crowded for me.

I sent him a text “I’m tired of fighting to be a part of your life.”

He responded with “What’s your problem?”

I sent another text, “You have a life there that I can’t be a part of.  I can’t come see you there, you won’t come here.  You’re busy with family friends and your job.  There’s just no room for me.”

That? Took a lot of courage, on my part.  But what I wonder now is this:  Was any of it real or were the feelings I felt at the beginning due to the mania?  Did I imagine it, exaggerate it because I was manic.  And now that I’m getting my head straightened out, and I’m not as manic or crazy, it’s not as appealing.  I’m seeing it for what it was.

He phoned and called me Babe.  That? Is a gold-plated Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.  I’m a sucker for a guy who calls me Babe. And yet?  This time I couldn’t.  This time I knew it was just him trying to reel me back in, but nothing would change.  It’s not like his family would magically disappear, or his job would instantly get less demanding.  I would still be an afterthought, something to squeeze in when he thought about it.

I deserve better than that.

Therapy taught me I have worth.  Even with my disease, I have worth.  That anyone worthy of me will love ME, want ME, and my illness won’t be an issue.

Rigteously Indignant, yup, that's me.

It's the only picture I could find besides a book I didn't want to promote.

Wikipedia defines Righteous Indignation as follows: Righteous indignation is typically a reactive emotion of anger over perceived mistreatment, insult, or malice.

Last night, I swear Rod Serling was writing the screenplay of my life.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  My life has had more than it’s fair share of the bizzaro. (please hover over that link so you can see what I’m talking about if you’re not going to click it and go read it.)

People, some of my best writing is in the notes when you hover over a link.  Please, to get the maximum enjoyment from my blog, hover over the links. (and if it doesn’t work.. let me know. I’ll cut a bitch.)

So, last night.

I was supposed to go to The Lake after dropping the girls off with their dad for the week.  Ok, I *did* go to The Lake after dropping the girls off for the week.

And when I got there, I stepped out of my car and smack dab in the middle of Bizzaro World.

I’m not going to throw anyone under the bus here.  There is a whole lot of stuff going on that I don’t even know. (Like basically everything).  In a sentence, due to everything going on, I was told I had to leave.  Whether it was or was not my fault hasn’t been determined to my satisfaction.  Ok. It’s not my FAULT, but the drama centered around me, and I don’t know why or how, or what started it, or what the hell is going on.  I just know, that everything I thought I knew going into the weekend came into question last night.

Ok.

This morning, I get up (after driving home at midnight last night) and I’m pissed.  Not at anyone specifically, just at the situation in general.  And at not having any clear cut answers.  Which is the very definition of irony coming from me.  So, I send a few text messages, trying to figure out what is going on, where things stand, blah blah blah.

And basically getting my panties in a wad.

Righteously indignant.

I set about writing a blog post screaming at the top of my lungs (ok, posting in a very loud voice) how effing fabulous I am, and how I am awesome with eleventy billion sides of awesome sauce (inflated ego much?  I know, I can barely walk into my own house.) I was all like, Look dude, I got plans, I got dreams, I got a life I want to live, and I ain’t got time to wait around for you to get your shit together and notice how fucking fabulous I am.  (ok, maybe it was a smidge nicer than that, but clearly not much.  Once I get all wadded panties and shit, I go way over the top.  Yes, really.  Have you met me?)

And just as I’m about to hit publish, and just after I sent him a text that said “Your reservation in my life expires at midnight, either confirm it or lose me forever.”

He texts.

And I feel like a total asshat.

 

Best. Picture. Ever.

So, I saved the blog post to my drafts folder.  I scrambled like eggs to look like less of an ass via text message.  In other words, his simple text took me down a few necessary notches.

Sure I’m fucking Fabulous, and all kinds of awesome, but you know what?  I’m not the end all be all of someone else’s life.  Everyone else is busy living their life, dealing with their drama, their issues, their problems.  It’s not all about me.  While I’m on my soapbox preaching “I’ve got dreams! I’ve got plans!  I’ve got a life and I don’t have time for you to figure out if you want to be in it!” he’s living his life, dealing with his drama, navigating the potholes in the road of his own damn fucking journey.

I had to sit down and think about that long and hard… not all about me.  Since fucking when?

I took a step back and looked at this whole thing and thought “Who the fuck do I think I am?” and if I had gotten that text message from him? I’d have said  ci vediamo più tardi  (Italian for see ya later)  or even baciare il mio culo (kiss my ass).

 

Let’s be honest, I suck at relationships.  I’m the perfect girlfriend… on paper.  It’s that real life face to face shit that gets me all jacked up.  On paper, behind a computer screen, I’m awesome.  I can also hide the crazy.  In real life?  not so much.

I have no real ending for this blog post.  Yes, I know, I suck at endings anyway.  Basically there is no ending because there are no answers yet.  It’s just “it’s up to you.  You know what’s going on there, I don’t.  I’ll wait to hear from you.” kind of thing.

 

I only judge myself, I am not judging you

“My Love Hate Relationship with My Body” series Part 1 and Part 2

I have written about my body image and my fucked up view of my weight.  I want to make some things very clear.  When I stood on that scale and it said 160, to me I was fat.  Very fat.  Horribly unhappily fat.  I want it very clear that the only person I judge is me.  If you weigh 160 I do not in any way think you’re fat.  Miss Banshee, in her Weight of the World post, put it perfectly when she said “To me, everyone else, EVERYONE else looks…right. The way they’re supposed to. Whatever weight they are. Perfectly normal and fine. Everyone but the image in the mirror. That one’s a freak”

Body dysmorphic disorder. My sister has admitted to having serious body image issues to some degree.  I will admit to having this same disorder to the Nth degree.  I don’t know where either of us get it.  (In an email to me, when I asked her this question, she is able to explain to me exactly why she feels this way.  I wish I was so self aware and insightful.) I don’t remember specific incidents that would have cause it. I remember, when I was a teen, wearing the latest fashion, which was short shorts (like up to my hoo-ha short) and half shirts.  Bare mid-drifts were the fashion in the 80’s.  (thanks Madonna)  And like most teen girls just discovering their sexuality and the power their bodies have over the boys, I dressed to show off the most skin.  My Dad didn’t like it.  What father would?  Compound that with the fact that he was a preacher, and had an image to maintain, I was an embarrassment.  I probably should have been embarrassed if I had any common sense.  But even then, the comments he did make were more about the fact that even when I was dressed, I wasn’t really dressed.  It never had to do with my body.

From the day I sat in the bathtub beside my BFTS Debbie, I have hated my thighs.  I haven’t always acted on that hate, but I have always thought my thighs were too big.  Ever since my high school friend commented on my flat stomach, I have been hyper aware of my stomach.  There were many nights I would lay in bed and if my hip bones didn’t protrude above my stomach by 2 inches, I worried.  If my stomach wasn’t hollowed out, I would worry I was getting fat.

My body turned 40 a couple of years ago.  And with that momentous birthday came a changing of the guard.  The weight that was all too easy to pack on thanks to cheesecake, margaritas, and pasta three nights a week, now stubbornly clings and refuses to budge or leave.  That’s not true.  The first 30 fell away pretty easily once I eliminated the cheesecake, the artery clogging Sunday morning brunches, Saturday afternoon lunches at Applebee’s, and the weekends full of margaritas or rum and coke.  Add to that the stress of the break-up, and it’s surprising 30 pounds is all I lost.  It should have been more.

But here I am, still not happy with the image in the mirror. Summer is right outside my door, and right now none of my shorts or skirts fit. But, I am determined I will not spend this summer in jeans and a frumpy old woman’s swimsuit.  This time? I’m going to do something about it.  The right way.

Aiming Low Does Good Spotlight: Mental Illness. This is My Story

The ladies (and Gent) over at Aiming Low are spotlighting mental Illness in their Aiming Low Does Good series. According to Britt, they have had an overwhelming response to their spotlight this month, and have decided to post links to other blog posts about personal experience with mental illness.

The truth is, mental illness still has a stigma attached to it, and due to that stigma, many people go untreated.  There is no shame in having a disease.  And mental illness is just that, a disease.

This is my story.

Back in May 2007, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  My then boyfriend and I were having a huge fight.  Let me rephrase that.  I was having a huge fight.  He was sitting there listening to me say these horrible, ugly, mean, vile things to him, about him, and he never fought back.  He never said anything ugly to me, he never raised his voice, he never got mad.  It had all started because I had seen a message from a girl I didn’t know to him, on his MySpace page. (Don’t judge, nobody knew about Facebook back then).  And as quickly and unexpectedly as it started, I stopped. (The fight. Not the MySpace page. He kept that? Far longer than he should have.)  I literally sat on the floor, knees drawn up to my chin, and couldn’t say another word.  Not wouldn’t.  I couldn’t.

The next day I called a therapist and made an appointment to get help.  I sat in the doctor’s office that afternoon telling her “I distinctly remember hearing all these vile, horrible, hateful words coming out of my mouth, crying inside, and my head screaming SHUT UP! But I couldn’t. And then? That was ALL I could do.”  It made no sense to me.  I didn’t want to say those things,and yet, I couldn’t stop them.

Bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance in my brain, and means some of the things in my brain don’t fire just right. But because it is a chemical imbalance that means that there isn’t a set course of treatment. Medicating bipolar disorder is a guessing game.  What works for me for 4 months, may stop working.  The dosage may have to be changed. Often.  I can be on as many as 5 different medications at a time, or as few as 2.  My brother says it’s like riding the roller coasters at Six Flags without the price of admission.  Also? He’s jealous I get to experiment with so many different kinds of drugs.  (None of them the “good” kind).

The problem with bipolar disorder is I never know exactly what is going to trigger a mood swing.  I can cycle from manic (very hyper, very active, agitated, easily distracted, full of energy) to depressed and back to manic again in as little as a couple of hours, or as long as months.  When I’m manic? I can clean a house, I *love* to shop (and my girls? Love to beg me to go to Target.  It doesn’t take much begging) and I can write a novel (albeit not a very good novel because it very seldom makes any sense. My thoughts are all over the place.  It’s like ADHD on crack.) If I am too far on the manic end of the spectrum, I am bitchy, cranky, ready to rip people’s heads off for looking at me wrong.  When I swing to the depression end of things… I want nothing more than to sit around in my sweats and watch movies and avoid the rest of the world.  Unfortunately for me, neither of those options work for me as a single parent.  I have to function, no matter where I am on the bipolar spectrum.

Bipolar disorder is hard to diagnose.  The depression mood swings are easy to see, easy to diagnose, easy to treat the symptoms.  Most people and doctors can easily recognize the depression signs.  It when you start to move out of the depression into a manic phase things get tricky.  See, manic?  It always fun and exciting and better than depression.  So when I start to go manic it’s like the depression is lifting.  I don’t realize there’s a problem, that I’ve gone too far, until I am very manic and that means not sleeping, and talking all the time, and can’t focus, and snapping at people.

What can you do if someone you love is bipolar? When someone hasn’t slept in days, or hasn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks, they aren’t in any place to be able to help themselves.  Encourage them to get help, offer to call their doctor, go with them to their appointments, help them be aware of their behavior and their mood swings.  Learn all that you can about the disorder.  Knowledge is power, and the more you know, the more you can understand and the more you can help.

I'm a guest blogger!

Back in January, Sassy Scorp posted she was looking for people to write guest posts for her blog.

I’m a self proclaimed attention whore, and relish the opportunity to meet new people so I jumped all over that.

Today? I’m over at Sassy’s Place, Single Mama in LA.  She’s a single mom like me.  We’re not ‘mommy bloggers’, and we both wish there was more of a single mom blogger niche out there for us.

In the meantime?  We’ll create our own.

So go read about my insecurities about getting naked with someone new.  Nothing like going to ‘visit’ a new bloggers place and getting naked all over their blog.

I’m klassy like that.

Because nothing screams dating expert like a twice divorced recently dumped single mom of two. Clearly.

I happen to be hanging out on Facebook when I saw Melissa say that yes, it was true, You Won’t Go Blind was looking for new writers if anyone was interested to contact her.

I thought it would be fun, so I fired off a message with links to here, and Buy-Her.com and said I was interested in being considered.  You know because nothing screams relationship expert quite as loudly as a twice divorced, recently dumped, now back in the dating world at the ripe age of 40+, mother of two almost teenage daughters.  I know exactly what I’m talking about. Clearly.

When I happened to mention this new adventure to a couple of my co-workers, after they stopped laughing long enough to take a breath, they asked me “So, has this woman ever met you?”   Well, clearly, no.  If she had?  I’d would have never been given this opportunity.

Of course, now, I can go on dates and consider it research.  As one friend pointed out “You can be St. Louis’s version of Carrie Bradshaw.”  Because that’s exactly what St. Louis needs.  Clearly.

In all seriousness, I can bring to the table knowledge about blending families, single parent dating, dating over the age of 40, on line dating (that’s where/how I met Brian, and regardless of where we are now (Splitsville, barely speaking Splitsville) we dated for 4 years) and unblending families.

I don’t have anything posted there yet, but believe me as soon as I do?  You all will be the first to know about it. I would appreciate it if you all would then spread the word and show me some love because I don’t want Melissa to regret giving me this chance.  I think it will be awesome beyond words and I need some support and love.  PLEASE.  We’ll keep the crazy from her until she realizes just how Awesome I am.

Questions of my heart

It’s very hard, when you put so much of your relationship on-line, when it all goes bad, to deal with the break up in the public eye.

I know that I don’t have to put anything on line about the break up.  Except that right after he broke up with me (via text, no less) he changed his relationship status on FB, therefore forcing my hand, and I had to acknowledge it.

And because I love(d) him, I asked that the bashing of him stop.  He (along with his son, our friends, his family) would see all that you wrote to me on my FB wall, in the comments.  And yes, I understand and appreciate your sentiments; I knew it would be better for everyone involved, in real life at least, if the bashing of him didn’t happen in public.

Keeping true to that has, at times, been difficult.

There have been days that I have sat down to write a scathing blog post reciting chapter and verse everything he did that pissed me off.  Maybe not at the time, but now, looking back pissed me off.  Just because being pissed off is much easier.  All those feelings, all that passion I felt for him, doesn’t just go away, doesn’t just turn itself off.  So, instead of channeling that passion into love, it’s easier, safer, and less painful to channel it into anger.

But it’s not fair to him.

Or his son.

Or our friends.

Or his family.

They did nothing wrong, and they don’t deserve to be caught in the cross fire, and don’t need to see this battle waged on the pages of the internet.

Brian wouldn’t wage it online anyway.

He would call me, or text me, or just turn his back and turn off my phone, and go quietly away in the middle of the night.

It’s hard to find other things to write about when your heart wants to pour itself out all over the place all the time.  It’s hard to sit down and write about something, anything else, besides the break up.

There are more than a few people I know, based on our history, think that this is just a phase for him.  That in a few weeks, he’ll miss me, he’ll come around, he’ll want to reconcile.

I’m not so sure.  Some days, I would agree with them. Other days? Not on your life.

Today?

One of those days without hope.

No, that’s not true.  Every day is full of hope.  Just today, there is no hope of any sort of reconciliation.

I’m ok with that.

And see, that’s where I am.

Taking this time (however long, or short) away from him, to figure out where I am, where I want to be, how to get there.

And most importantly, what being “there” (where ever there is) looks and feels like.

Do I want him along for the journey?

Do I want to take him on that journey with me?

Do I dig down deep inside me, in a place I have never found, but I’m sure is there, and find the strength and courage to say “I love you, more than you know, but it’s time we stop hurting each other.”

Or is that taking the easy way out?  Walking away without talking about our problems and trying to find a solution?

Or is this the solution?

It's that time of year again

It’s that time of year again. You know what I’m talking about.  Every radio commercial now has a Christmas song playing in the back ground.  I swear there is a jewelry store ad with “Away in the Manger” playing in the background.  Seriously?  When did the Sweet 8 lb 6 oz baby Jesus sell out? There are hundreds of pieces of paper laying around the house all of them titled “My Christmas Wish List” and all of them with a list of at least a dozen different things each of the girls wants.   And yet, whenever anyone in my family asks them “What do you want for Christmas?”  Their standard answer?  “I don’t know.”  Or worse yet?  “Clothes”.

Of course it’s this time of year I start looking for places to sell my soul to pay for the items the girls want for Christmas.  Although there isn’t much of a market for a slightly over used 42 year old beat all to hell soul.  Surprisingly.

I am almost afraid to ask for anything this year because lately so many things have been going my way, I’m afraid to overtax the system and crash the Good-Things-Fairy.  Not that I’m superstitious or anything.  (Knock on wood).

A few months ago (Like back in April) a promise was made.  A promise of a ring. Of course there was the whole take care of a few things, blah blah yada yada.  At the time I glossed over the take care of a few things, and rushed right on through to THE ring.

Turns out, he was pretty serious about that shit.

Know what? Apparently so was I.

Only I didn’t know it at the time.

Taking care of my legal issues?  Done.

Find a better place to live.  Done.

Due to an agreement with the girls’ Dad this week, I will be financially able to stand on my own two feet if I am really careful with my money.

That was another thing on the list of things that needed to be taken care of.

I don’t know where this is going.  I’m just rambling here.

The point I’m getting at, I think, is back in April I would have gone through the motions, checked things off the list, whatever it took to get to that damn ring.  Somewhere along the way?  The ring became minor.  I got the satisfaction of living my life, making a good life for me and my girls.  In the process of making a better life I found some pride, some self respect.  All of which you would think I would have already had at age *cough*42*cough*.   Apparently not.

Last night Tate cheered at her first game.  Last night I saw myself in the roll of cheer mom.  I never thought I would be one of *those* moms and yet, here I am.  And I couldn’t be more thrilled.  I was so proud of her last night.  (I am pretty damn proud of all three of us to be honest.)  She has games Monday and Tuesday this next week, and that means our nights are going to be busy. Really busy.  And I relish that.

So, Christmas… my girls have their wish lists scattered all over my living room.  On my wish list?  I sort of got it already.

Bankrupt

Yesterday I hit my brick wall.  Yesterday it took everything I had to get up and face the world and the people in it.

For weeks now, it seems, everyone in my life, personal, professional, everyone I had contact with wanted/needed something from me.  There was a long line standing in front of me with their hands outstretched, laundry lists in hands of wants and needs they had that they expected me to meet. Not a one of them had anything to give me in return.

My emotional, physical, financial bank accounts?  Empty.  There just was nothing left of me to give.  I couldn’t muster up the energy to give a damn about anyone else’s needs or wants.  I’d spent far too long meeting theirs and ignoring mine and I was bankrupt.

Every request was met with my mind screaming FUCK YOU! even though I did my best to function and meet their needs YET AGAIN knowing there would be nothing given back in return.  Not a thank you. Not a smile, not a pat on the back, not a break, not an option.

Last night I splurged (to ease my guilt) and bought dinner for the girls. Took it home, asked them to clean up their mess when they were done, and I went and crawled into bed and shut out the world.  I had nothing left.  at 7:30 I was in bed and as far as I was concerned the world ended at the edge of my bed.  I pulled the covers up to my chin and drifted away to where nobody wanted anything from me.  That I could do.  That I could give.

Today is better.  Today I can find the words to say “Enough is enough. I can’t do/give that right now.”  Today I have the words to say ‘I need this from you.”  Words I had forgotten/refused to use in the past, I am finding I have to use today.

It will take a few more days to get back to my usual self but I’ll get there.  I will do what I can for you, I will give what I can, but understand it won’t be everything.  I just can’t do that any more.

A Letter to my body

Dear Body,

This is the year we turn the big 4-0.  I’d say that in those 4 decades you have held up pretty well.  Yes you have battle scars and stretch marks, but show me a 40 year old perfect body with no scars or stretch marks and I’ll show you someone who is altogether too sheltered and spoiled and hasn’t really lived. (or knows a fantastic plastic surgeon)

To be honest, I don’t think I paid much attention to you until I reached high school.  Then I was ashamed.  There was the hair that would not be tamed (oh what I would give to have known about mousse or hair gel at that time in my life.. or hell even a perm)  There were the eyes that required glasses, and contacts were out of the question.  But aside from that, I didn’t pay much attention.

Looking back I can see that I didn’t take very good care of you, but you took care of me.  In college I fed you junk, when I fed you at all.  I drank entirely too much alcohol, and tiptoed around the fringes of other mind altering substances.  I’m sure I took way too many risks with our health, and frankly we got lucky. Very lucky.

It wasn’t until after college that I finally put a name to the abuse I had inflicted on you.  Anorexia.  I starved you to be smaller than you were or at least smaller than I thought you were.  And yet, even after all of that, you were strong enough to support and carry a baby to term three times.  And they were big babies too.

I still fee the need limit what I eat, but not to the extreme I used to. Bad habits are hard to break.  I have reason to eat now, and while I have to adjust my mind to seeing the new healthier you, I know that you look better now than you did at 17.

I’ve baked you in the sun and in the beds.  I’ve stretched you to give birth to three kids. I’ve pierced you, poked you, cut you, and abused you.  But I have also loved you and at times taken care of you.  And at 40, I’m lucky that you are still taking care of me.

I would like to think I’m smarter now than I have been.  I would like to tell you that the next 20 years will not be as difficult as the last 40, but I’m not sure I can promise you that.  I can tell you that I will try to be nicer, to take better care of you.  In thanks for you putting up with me all these years