Going Bald - Not Really

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

I'm going bald, ripping my own hair out in haphazard fistfuls that leave me looking like a crazed cat lady. Ok, maybe not really. I sure feel like that sometimes. Homeschool your child with psychiatric problems they said, it'll be so much easier they said. The internet lied and said this would be easy! I'm in shock, the internet freaking lied!

I am not fully equipped to teach my children. I have a decided lack of general patience and kindness. I am almost assured of not being equipped to simply maintain normal human relationships.

I am contemplating purchasing mass quantities of Arby's sauce and eating my kids. I bet they would taste lovely with some fava beans.

How to Fix a Spoiled Brat

Thursday, May 1, 2014

We all do it at some point or another - our children are whining, we have 28 hours of things to do in a 24 hour day, just giving them that cookie or another 10 minutes on the 2DS or letting them "wait" to do their homework until later. Any parent that says they have never let their kids slide EVER is a damn bold-faced-liar ...... but see, the problem is...its a slippery slope.

A slipper slope coated in sticky lollipop hands and mediocre grades that ends with an eye twitching, slowly getting gray haired, ready to cry Mama. Listen and learn all you young bright eyed parents! This is your notice! Put down that lollipop and don't give me any lip about how they are just so cute, how can you say no, or just one won't hurt. It starts with the lollipop I tell you!! Ok, well, maybe not but damn it I have to blame someone!

Truth is, I did this. I let it get to this point where I am running around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to make everyone but myself happy. I am the one with the seven year old (hence forth known as Bug) who fights me to do homework (despite being proven capable - nice try kid ) and refuses to even pick up a bubblegum wrapper without whining and deflecting. I am the one with the 16mo (hence forth known as Tato) who won't sleep on her own, won't play on her own, and quite simply just doesn't do "alone" unless she is at someone else's house. I wrapped my son in bubble wrap and catered to him. I do it with my husband. I do it with my daughter. Hell in this house of three adults, two kids, and two cats I sometimes think the only person who appreciates me are the cats and for one of them its just because I feed her. How sad is it that with three able bodied people (myself, Dad, and Bug) that the only aid I get in my war on grime is a 70 year old man in a wheelchair.

So how do I fix it? How do you fix spoiled brats? Is there a self-help book out there somewhere I just have not seen yet? Someone with magical fix-em powers who can teach me the finer points of explaining to my children (I'm counting the "big kids" too at this point) that I am not an all-inclusive Robot house slave. I was not put on this God forsaken planet to find your socks and shoes because you didn't listen the first 800 times I told you to put them back where they belong. I was not put here to be talked at instead of to. I was not put on this planet to be ignored. And by all that is glorious I was not put on this planet to hunt you dirty underwear and hand scrub and pre-soak them because instead of throwing them in the wash you tried to clean up a juice spill and then threw them in your closet.

I am on overload. Full, absolute overload. Can I quit? Strike? No? DAMN IT!

Work it Out

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

I'm not alone in feeling undervalued and under-appreciated as a SAHM. Many SAHMs feel this way. I wouldn't trade my ability to stay at home with my children for any high paying job. I love my kids, I love my husband, I love my "job" but that doesn't mean I don't get the blues every once in a while. I feel so frustrated. I clean the house to the point you could lick the carpets and come up with fresh breathe and three hours later there are bits of trash all over, toys scattered, papers stacked in random strange places, sneakers and boots left in the middle of the floor, crumbs in my bed. Its normal. It happens. But today I woke up like it was a personal attack on me. When my son, who is home from school for a psychiatry appointment, fought tooth and nail over doing his schoolwork it felt like a personal attack on me. When my daughter, who is only 15mo and perfectly innocent and unaware, decided the perfect time to pitch a fit and hit Mommy was when she was doing the menu for Easter dinner ... it felt like a personal attack on me. When my husband got crabby because his acid reflux was acting up and started slamming things around in the kitchen, it felt like a personal attack on me.

These things are nor related. They are just things. Things happen. I know that my son isn't fighting homework because he hates me. I know my daughter isn't being a little terror because she hates me. I know my husband isn't cranky because he hates me. No one hates me. Or at least no one that matters. I'm just feeling vulnerable, over sensitive, and overwhelmed.

I have to remember what I have already accomplished. I managed to pass my classes for the quarter despite health problems. I got Honor's list the two previous quarters. I have a clean house and healthy children. I have bills paid.

Today I am going to Pivotal Fitness to try them out for a week with my MiL. Today I'm going to go work it out.

Discovery

Friday, April 4, 2014

I discovered today that I'm fat. Now don't get me wrong, I've always known I was big. I always known I was over-weight ... but its never phased me. Cruel comments slide off like rain on the windshield, barely leaving a trail before they are gone. Today, I discovered that I am not just over-weight. I am fat. I am unhealthy. I am unhappy. This blog has been a place for me to vent, most of my posts left as drafts because they were outrageous or to painfully personal to expose to the internet (though no one reads this anyway) but today, today I am taking a stand against what I have become. I deserve to live a life where I can pass by a mirror and go "Well hot damn!" not "Oh sweet jesus, no!"

I picked up a bottle of multivitamins and a bottle of Garcinia Cambogia. I have a diet plan. I have a work out plan. Most importantly, I have a goal and a motivator. I need to loose one-hundred-mother-fucking pounds. Are you with me interwebz? Because we are about to go on a roller-coaster ride from hell. Welcome to Boot-Camp, bitches.

Save A Life

Friday, January 24, 2014

When I was 16 years old I was a fall down, roll around, laugh for no reason drunk. I had a stash of little minibar bottles of liquor under my bed, in my closet, under my underwear drawer. I'd sweet talk friends into letting me swipe their daddy's beers and their mama's vodka. I'd bat my lashes at anything that might look my way if it meant a free bottle. I never stooped so low as to sell my body but damned if I didn't get close to that desperate. If I wasn't boozed I wasn't functional. I wasn't myself unless I was buzzing along. And then one day I went in to the doctors because I felt so nauseous and gross ... and an hour later I was staring at this tiny little inexplicable miracle, a little heart pounding away, and I was undone. I poured out my stash. I never looked back. My son, he saved my life.

Friday he turns 7 years old and I can't help but lay here, wrapped in nostalgia. My first born, my Lil man, my love bug. Where has time gone? And why did it go so fast? I still remember how small he felt in my arms, how fragile. Now I can barely puck him up. His golden curls are gone, replaced by think dark brown hair and a million cowlicks but those sweet,root beer eyes still stare up at me with a crooked smile: dimples and all.

One day when he is old enough to understand, I'll tell him. I'll tell him how just watching his tiny heart beat changed me. How he saved my life and how when he looks up at me with those trusting brown eyes I want to be a better person. I want to make the most of this life, for him.

Label Me

Thursday, December 12, 2013

No matter what I accomplish in life, to my family, who watched me struggle with a mental health diagnosis from an early age, I will be a fuck-up. When I was 12 years old I swallowed an entire bottle of migraine medication and laid on my bed, waiting for the painless sleep to wash over me - naiive from to much television and looking for an escape. It hurt. It hurt so bad I cried out, I begged for a quicker death. I got the ER, an empty stomach, and a hospital stay. The moment they closed those thick metal double doors behind me as I shuffled to a room, shaking and wide eyed in blue paper scrubs, my fate was sealed. I was officially the family fuck up.

If I cry, Oh its just her bipolar. If I am angry or offended, it is just her bipolar. I enjoy sex, didn't you know that Bipolar patients are overly sexual? Its a impulse thing, I'm a medically certified whore. I respond sarcastically or defensively to something you've said, no matter how rude? Oh, I'm having a mood swing. Name a medicine, any medicine, I've tried it. I've been sat on and small beige pills forced down my throat. I've been threatened until I swallowed white horse pills dry, gagging on the chalky taste - scared of "the group home" which was my mother's favorite method to shut me up.

I'm a grown woman now, a full time college student with a 3.8 GPA, two small children, and two grown men who wouldn't know what to do with themselves if I stopped finding their keys, doing their laundry, and cooking their meals. I'm still a fuck-up. My aunts and mother joke that they should come teach me how to shop, how to cook. They make excuses for my bad attitude when I don't find their humor funny or I disagree. She can't help it, she's crazy.

I'm so tired of this label. Tonight I got in an argument with my sister she "jokingly" yelled down the hall way how it wasn't fair that we paused the movie so I could put my 6 year old to bed while my husband wrangled the baby. I told her she was being rude and it escalated, she went to storm out and I told her to just take her shit and go, I didn't have time for the bullshit. I was rude. I admit it. I was snappy. I told her she was being bitchy. " Fuck you, you bipolar cunt, take your meds." .........

Label me.

Caged

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

I feel like a wild creature shoved into a cage two sizes to small. I press against the cold iron and bare my teeth but what good is simmering rage against the strength of my prison? I have caged myself in love and hunger. The perfect prison. While you may rage against its hold and all the indignities of your capture, freedom is just as painful if not more so.

I married a man who I love. Who makes me laugh. Who is capable, when he so chooses, to be as sticky sweet as any RomCom hero. And he is flawed. As all humanity is flawed. He is self-centered, lazy, and defensive. He has an uncertain temper, a shallow stream of romanticism that runs dry more than it flourishes, a spoiled, me me me attitude about life, and a strong refusal to ever accept blame for anything, ever. And I love him.

I love him when he's in a snit and every word that escapes his scowl is rude or hurtful. I love him when he's making a horrible mess and then blaming me for the filth. I love him when he forgets what I've said or isn't listening. I love him. I love him for the unexpected sneak attack kisses. I love him for the goofy sense of humor. I love him for his loyalty. I love him for every random act of kindness. I love him for the beautiful, growly, little beastie he gave me. I love him. I hate him. I can't live without him, but I'd love to shake him until his little pea-sized brain rattled around in his head.

I am trapped.

Talking it out doesn't work and I won't resort to the silent treatment or throwing things. I struggle through day after day, in pain physically and emotionally and the world at large is unaware or simply uncaring.

If I could turn back to dial, would I do any different? Would I change my life? I don't know. I simply don't know.