Cop Killaz & Kid Killerz

I am sick reading about all of these officers being shot. There were 2 officers killed on Sunday after responding to a suspicious car in a grocery story parking lot. It makes me ill. I don't understand how anyone can kill anyone, other than just losing it and snapping. That said, I get, but still, I can't comprehend killing anyone... even though I have been on the verge of snapping myself... thought things that are crazy... 

So, I guess I can understand, but not... I get the whole "snap" and then shit goes down. That's how it happens, I think... it's a moment where you're just done and you lose it and really bad stuff happens... I think that if people just had 5 minutes of lucidity right before or during their breaking point, it'd be different.

What went down in Newtown... being a teacher here in KC and a parent of school-aged children... I do not get. How do you walk into a school and kill kids? We are talking an adult who walked into a school and killed 20 children. Now, if he'd just gone in and done that to adults, I would still have an issue, of course... but kids?! WTF?! If you had an issue with adults in the school and went to do them in, okay (not okay, but... okay). But the kids??? How in the hell do you walk in and kill an entire class of children?! It's an understatement to say that I feel for the families of all those who lost children, family, etc. 

Schools are "weapon free" zones... how do you suppose educators are to protect themselves and their students? We are to lock ourselves and students in a classroom and wait for the Police to get there. You never know how long it'll take for Police presence to arrive. I'd carry in a school, but it is a federal crime, so, what do we do?

Anyway, I'm reeling...

If I wasn't such a fucking coward...

Random Beginning

I often wonder, and even start off writing by questioning who would care to read about my life or thoughts.  But then again, how many people write books about their lives that people read?  A vast number.  What makes someone want to read about someone else’s life?  Why doesn’t everyone write about their lives for someone else to read?  I never know where to start and feel like I have to start at the beginning and work my way to the present.  Who wants to read something out of sorts?  Does it really matter?  Do I start from the present and work my way backwards or do I just write as it comes, sort it out later, or leave it the way it comes out?  People read books about self-help or about people they’re interested in.  What’s the point of writing about my life anyway?  Catharsis?  To help someone else?  Boredom?  Because I think I have something to say or that I am special?  Does it even matter?

Perfection

Desired. Impossible.

It Always Comes Back

The earliest poem I remember writing was when I was 7 or 8. It was a poem for my Nana who had ovarian cancer. I wrote it to enter a contest at school. I still have the poem some where.

That was the beginning of my writing I guess. I used to write, constantly.

I got to a point where I decided to destroy everything I had ever written. I didn't want reminders of all my past hurts and pain. Like getting rid of it would make it go away? I threw away journals and destroyed a floppy disk that I had copied all of my poetry onto.

Today, I regret that decision.

Oh yeah, that contest? I won first place and went to state with it.

The wrong capacity

how is it that I have more capacity to:

feel more pain than joy?

cry more tears than smile?

hang my head more than walk confidently?

want to scream more than laugh?

be out of sorts more than together?

dislike myself rather than like who I am?

be more distrusting than trusting?

heart broken

It hurts.

Memories.

Past pains.

Realizations.

I could cry myself to sleep.

I just remember how I wasn't enough.

How I couldn't be enough.

I was physically, emotionally and mentally incapacitated.  So, wouldn't anyone reach out to have their needs met by another?  Isn't that just natural?  Whatever it is, it is still hurtful, awfully, painful.

Even more the realization of you're the reason your love felt the need to look elsewhere for support, because you couldn't give it to him...hurts my heart so.

20+10

This week has been my birthday week. I turn 30 on Friday. I asked Donald last year to plan a huge bash for me. Apparently, he listened and now has been planning a party for the past few months. He's been working so incredibly. hard, both literally, and figuratively. I have felt so loved this week. He's given me a gift every day and really loved me well. 

I feel refreshed, taken care of and new. Something is changing and it is amazing. 

It's my last day in my 20s and I am ready to turn over this new leaf. It's Fall. It's a new season. Bring on 30.

xoxo

1

Is it fair for me to want to be the only One?

A No-Win

I constantly set myself up by putting myself in no-win situations.

For instance, my idea of beauty. 

tall(er/than me)+thin(ner/than me)=beautiful. 

Now, how does that become a no-win? 

I will never be taller AND thinner. 

Unless my idea of beauty changes, I'll never be beautiful.

in-se-cure

in·se·cure

  

adjective

1.

subject to fears, doubts, etc.; not self-confident or assured

2.

not confident or certain; uneasy; anxious

3.

not secure; exposed or liable to risk, loss, or danger

4.

not firmly or reliably placed or fastened

The other woman. Her. That girl. The one who just walked by. That girl on the billboard. The one in the commercial. The women at church. That girl you work with. The memory of some old girlfriend. That lady who was sweet to you in the store. The girl that smiled at you. My best friend. That guy's daughter. That girl on that one T.V. show. Victoria's Secret. Magazines. The soccer mom across the field. The cheerleaders at the games you work. The girl who touches you in passing and it makes you uncomfortable but you don't say anything. Youtube. Movies. Waitresses. Dreams. The sultry voice of that one musician. Your best friend's wife.

My insecurities pan throughout the spectrum.  For the most part, I am insecure the moment I walk into another room with females, or when my husband has contact with them. My trigger goes off to everything I am not and to everything they are. I think in my head, in some twisted way, that my husband desires what they are and 99.99% of the time I am nothing like them. They're taller, thinner, light headed, etc. It undoes me.

I have to either space out and disconnect or constantly be telling myself the opposite of what I'd be naturally (wrongly) thinking, CONSTANTLY. If I let up for a second, it's over. How freaking exhausting is that? How exhausting is it to continually be assaulted this way: mind f*cked over and over and over again with little to no reprieve?

50/50

di·chot·o·my

 [dahy-kot-uh-mee] 

noun, plural di·chot·o·mies.

1.

division into two parts, kinds, etc.; subdivision into halves or pairs.

2.

division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups.

I was talking to my mother in law two days ago and telling her how I have these two things always going on in me. This dichotomy of sorts. I rarely have a peace about anything. If I want something, desire something or think something, there is always an opposite waiting to happen. I can't ever desire something, have it and be glad/happy/at rest about it. It is always thing like, "I'd like this, okay have it, I want it, I'd like it...no, you're disgusting, you can't have this, you don't deserve this, that is disgusting, gross, etc..." I can have a resolution about something but it isn't really resolute. I may make a decision about something, but there is always a question, doubt or issue.

This is something that has always been inside of me, as long as I can remember anyway. The earliest I can recall, is about food. I would be hungry and think/know I needed to eat but think, "okay, what do I eat? I don't know. Ugh, I don't want to eat. I don't care if I am hungry. But, I am hungry...I have no idea what to eat, okay, don't eat...if you eat you'll get fat, just don't eat." This crazy dialogue in my head about eating... it'd be so frustrating that I just wouldn't eat.

Even if I desire something, I talk myself out of it. I tell myself how much I don't deserve it, how much it is gross for/to me, etc. So, I asked my husband to throw me a 30th birthday party. It is in less than 40 days, and apparently, he's been planning since my 29th birthday. I have done and said everything to communicate to him that I don't deserve this party, that time, money and etc. would be better spent elsewhere... when in reality, I really want to be loved, celebrated, etc...But, I don't think that I deserve ANYTHING good or positive...even when I want or desire it... so I have this crazy push and pull inside of myself...yes, I want to be loved, appreciated and celebrated (so incredibly bad) and at the same time, I don't think I should have it, deserve it, I am too awful to be celebrated, etc...

**Unfinished. Written Thursday, September 13, 2012, posted, Friday, September 14, 2012

Smile.微笑み. Sonrisa. Sorridere. ابتسام. Glimlach. Sourire.

Technically, a smile is a facial expression characterized by the corners of the mouth turning upward.  Accompanying this expression is normally a feeling of pleasure. Would it still be a smile if there was no emotion tied to it? People smirk all the time and it's still considered to be a smile, just a scornful one (there is still an emotion, scorn). Perhaps it has nothing to do with emotion at all. If we take it at face value, or simply a physical action, then a smile is nothing but a movement of the mouth or lips. That said, even a fake smile has an emotion tied to it. Maybe the emotion is fear, or anger, or disconnection. No one is ever void of emotion. Even if we are "blank" or "blah" we are still feeling something, even if it is the absence of something. To say I feel nothing, is to feeling something. Or is it?

I could spiral into a rant about this if I allowed myself, but I don't feel like it. Hah, feel. I don't even feel like writing anything today. I wanted to just skip writing a post. It feels like too much energy, effort, like something more than I want or have to give right now. Feel, feel, feel.

Moving on.

I cried so much last night. I dreaded going to sleep. I felt this strange fear. It was a fear I felt when I was little, growing up. I felt it when I had to go to bed and knew my parents would only be up a little while longer, in the living room, watching TV. I could see the light from my bedroom door when they were still up. After the light went off (I think that's when it happened) and I knew I was alone, this fear enveloped me. I don't remember feeling it after my parents divorced, after my Mom, brother and I moved from the house I pretty much grew up in. I think I was 12 or so. I felt this same, strange, overwhelming fear after I had my daughter, seven years ago. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to breastfeed her and Donald was still asleep. I was terrified of her falling back asleep and me being the only one awake. The strange thing was, is that Donald was right beside me(asleep, but still right there) and she was in the same room. I wasn't alone, yet this massive, dark thing engulfed me.

This is what I felt last night. No one was asleep. Donald, Lainee and Miles and Granny were still awake. I had this horrible apprehension about going to sleep. It was after 7 p.m. and I knew it was getting close to "bed time". I was dreading the next day (today). I didn't want to go to work, I didn't want to have to go to sleep and wake up to this day. It had nothing to do with wanting to die, just this ensuing sense of dismay. I had to take an Ambien to go to sleep. That was even scary because I knew I was making myself go to sleep. So strange this fear. I seriously cannot convey it with words. I don't understand when or why I feel it.

I obviously went to sleep. I woke up this morning as late as possible, even later than pushing it. I showered but didn't wash my hair and rushed the kids through getting dressed, breakfast and out the door to school. I was up and down all day, fighting back tears and emotion. Teaching kids a few hours a day keeps my mind occupied but I still have to put shit away.

I don't want to write anymore. Oh, I ate today. I hadn't eaten since dinner Friday night. I have felt so ill and not hungry. Of course, when you don't eat, it just perpetuates the cycle of not eating. My body is so messed up. I started my period 13 days late. No, I am not pregnant. I don't know what is going on.

I hate this emotional, physical roller coaster, but still, sometimes, I (put on a) smile.

:-)

This one is for Joni

She said I should write a book. I said, "About what?" She said, "Write about anything, just write." "Funny," I said, "I have thought for a long time about writing about my life and experiences, but wondered who would care or what would it matter?" So, I went home, and wrote... I wrote about a paragraph. It was about a lot of awful, hurtful things I said to my husband in the throes of my depression. That was April 22, 2012, and this is what I wrote:

"I said crazy mean out there things. Shooting myself in head. Dying. Car accident. Checking into hotel. Going to grocery store, never coming home. Donald frustrated, talking harshly, I know he loves me but it isn’t registering… I don’t think he gets me. Thinks it’s a pity party… constantly hurt, hurting, withdrawn, can’t talk to Donald. I tell him things, he gives explanations, not validation, he’s extremely patient with me, anyone else might just leave, or beat me, Idk. That said, he’s unkind, I can justify it for him though. I am sick of women coming into our relationship in one form or another, a classmate from HS he hugs while working, a girl he speaks into about her son at a parenting seminar, etc… it won’t go away. I hate it. I have been going insane the last few weeks. I don’t know why I am writing, except Joni mentioned it today… this is all I’ve got… not really, but if I really let myself go I’d be up for days, weeks, writing…" 

I haven't really written since.

Today is September 9, 2012.

I've tried to blog before. I think I "started" this blog back in 2009. I may have written one post, if that. You see, I used to write constantly. That was more than ten years ago. I was in high school. What I wrote was mostly poetry. It was dark. It was morbid. It was my way of releasing all of the despair I felt, or maybe it was just a record of my suffering. Whatever it was, it concerned my mother to the point of taking me to see a psychologist. When you're fifteen, you don't really have a choice when your mom says you have to go. One psychologist I remember, was this older man, had to have been in his 50s. I can remember him asking me if my mom needed to check me while I bathed. I had been cutting myself. I recall telling him no, I didn't need my mom to check on me while I was bathing to see if I was still self-mutilating. I still did it even after those few appointments, off and on for a few years. To some, it makes no sense. To others, perfect.

**Side note: There's this thing about physical pain when you're experiencing an overload of emotional trauma. It's described well by a fellow blogger as she talks to her therapist:

"What is it about banging your hand against the wall that relieves you," she asked?
"I don't know," I said. But I guess I do understand it. The very real physical pain stops the very surreal mental anguish. It's easy. It's immediate. It's unhealthy. But it works."

When you can transfer your mental/emotional suffering into something else, something more concrete/outside of yourself, it some how minimizes/deadens the pain.

Moving on to more recent things, like today. This is one of many things that hit me today. I wasn't worth anything all day. I was shut down, numb, crying, angry, etc.

I've heard a lot of girls lament turning 30. I've never been one of them. In fact, I've found it lame & ridiculous. I've even welcomed it. However, today, for the 1st time ever, I find myself crying, tears flowing in an uncontrollable stream down my cheeks...I'm angry and sad and devastated that I'll be 30 in 40 days and I'm still this thing, this misunderstood, life-sucking burden.

They say that it's "normal" to have passing thoughts of suicide or the like thereof. The difference between me and this "normal," is that I wonder if my children would be better off without having to suffer with all that I am, me being their mother for the rest of their lives, or would they be better off without me, having to work through the pain of not having a mother (like me)...the latter seems like a better option at times.