My Two Moms

The first time I met my stepmother, three things happened in this order:

1)  My dad gave my sister and me a Nintendo.

2)  A dark-eyed woman with red lipstick walked into my dad’s apartment and said “Hi.”

3)  We then replied, “Bye” and turned back around to play Super Mario Bros. (the original version)

During this time in my life, I watched The Parent Trap (the Hailey Mills version) again and again, trying desperately to figure out how to get my parents back together.  If only I had a twin sister.  If only our parents had sent us to a summer camp together where we could discover our past and unite against divorce.  Instead, I had a dopey little sister, who cried almost every day for our mom when we were with our dad—and for Dad when we were with Mom.  I also had a mom who cried every day for my dad when we were with her.

 

One weekend my father took the four of us, him, my sister, the new girlfriend and me, to see  Arachnophobia.  It was 1990; I was wearing a shirt with tassels all over it and a gaudy peace sign choker.  While watching the deadly Venezuelan spiders claim victim after victim, I couldn’t shake the feeling of crawling across my skin.  I remember twitching a lot in my seat.  I remember thinking, Parent Trap.

In The Parent Trap, the dad has a new girlfriend.  A young, beautiful girlfriend.  My dad too had a young, beautiful girlfriend.  (A girlfriend my mother often referred to as “The Mexican Hussy”.)  The girlfriend in the movie barely tolerates the twins.  Thus, the girls are totally justified in pranking her. During an unfortunate camping trip, the girls attract a bear to lick honey off the girlfriend’s feet. The beauty queen surrenders, leaving the dad behind with his very naughty but victorious daughters.  With the girlfriend gone, the mom is free to reclaim her throne.

 

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and walked a couple of rows back in the dark theatre.  I untied one of my high-tops and removed the shoelace.  I tied a knot at the end of lace and tugged it a couple of times.

Popcorn stuck to my hands, as I crawled down the movie theatre aisle until I got one row behind my dad and his girlfriend.  I positioned myself ever so quietly behind them and waited for the music to swell.  Waited until the spider crawled ominously across a towel, down a shirt sleeve across the big screen.  Waited until the music hit loud so I could throw the shoelace over the shoulder of my dad’s beauty queen.   The music inflated; I threw.

I wanted her to scream.  I wanted her to jump up and run down the carpeted rows of the theatre, shouting to my father that we were horrible little monsters.  I wanted her to cuss us out, to say something so heinous about us that my dad could never forgive her.

I held my breath and tried not to squeal with delight.  At any moment she was going to shriek, rip the spider-like tangle from her hair and run.  And be gone.

But she didn’t.  After a minute, she casually turned around and looked at me in confusion.  Maybe it was pity.  Maybe she had seen The Parent Trap.  Maybe she knew what a sad and confused girl I was.  But by then my dad noticed, and he hissed through his teeth to get back to my seat.

 

She married my dad less than a year later and asked us to be the flower girls.  She was kind to us even when we asked her things like, “Are you a real Mexican?” knowing full and well she was Puerto Rican.  She took us out a lot—bowling, swimming, golfing, horseback riding, even when our dad wasn’t there—which was a lot.  Even though we probably never said thank you and probably always talked about our mom.  Our perfect, beautiful, broken-hearted mom.

But our new stepmom sang at the top of her lungs in her car.  She danced when she heard a good song on the radio.  She made our dad laugh which was rare.  She was even kind to our mother who was, often, not kind to her.

As I got older, and I struggled with issues with my own mother, my stepmother, who had lost her mother at twenty-six, reminded me that I would never get another mother.  She told me to be patient with my mother, to forgive her, to never stop loving her, to be kind to her even if I didn’t feel like being kind, to not judge her.  She often urged me to call my mother, to go and see her.  You only get one, she said.

 

But the truth is, I got two.   My mom is my mom.  But my stepmom is my mom too.

 

Mother’s Day is about so much more than mothers.  Mother’s Day isn’t necessarily about the woman who birthed you.  It’s about women.  How our sisterhood, our love, and our contributions to this world are inimitable and momentous.  If you’ve ever been loved by a woman, you know the love of a mother.

Oh sure, it’s about moms too.  But it’s also about the stand-in mothers.  So many of us were raised, influenced, and encouraged by women that weren’t our mothers.

So here’s to you: To our mothers.  Our stepmothers.  To our aunts and grandmas.  Great grandmas and godmothers.  Sisters and cousins.  To our friend’s mothers.  To our mother-in-laws.  To our teachers and mentors.  To our best friends.  Here’s to the women who have loved, love, and will love us.

Happy Mother’s Day.

 

Dad & Deb Shaver Lake

My kids, my dad, and my Mom #2.

Tagged

are you my mother?

It will be Mother’s Day again soon. I am not scheduled to have the boys on that day, but Ryan is being more than accommodating. We will feel our way through this holiday like we have done with the past several, and we will be a little stiff but kind to one another. I have no biological mother to buy flowers for and celebrate. I have no stepmother. And though the paperwork is still unfiled, I now have no mother-in-law. The latter was the closest I ever had to a mother.

In P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother?, a confused baby bird asks one animal after the next if it is his mother.

20140506-191340.jpg

He naively thinks a kitten, a hen, a dog, a cow, a car, a boat, and a plane are his mother. He bumps around from one to the next, growing more and more frantic. He finally winds up on top of a seemingly dangerous, harmful-to-the-environment bulldozer-type machine. He feels panicked and trapped. He pleads for his mother. Fortunately, at the most crucial moment, he is miraculously dropped back into his nest, and they are reunited.

I was 10 when my biological mother died, but only 4 when she left me. I was raised by a stepmother who could be cruel and irrational, who hit me often. Like the baby bird, I bumped around, seeking the nurturing I lacked. I felt fortunate when I met my future mother-in-law at 15, and I eventually became part of her family when I married her son. We are both tall and brunette, with broad smiles. In public, people often mistook her for my mother, and I loved that. She told me she loved me like a daughter, and I believed her.

But circumstances change. People say parents love unconditionally, but I’m not sure I believe in that sort of love. Or maybe it’s the blood that makes the difference. I have moved from one mother to the next, but they either die, or resent, or give up on me.

I get the feeling that it would be much easier for Ryan’s parents, especially his mother, if I could somehow be erased. I understand that this is painful for them, too. Like that photo of the McFly siblings in Back to the Future, maybe they wish I could just gently fade away and disappear.

20140506-191903.jpg

The problem is, I am everywhere. I am in all of the family photos from the past two decades. I am at birthday parties for my nieces. Their grandchildren have my DNA. Worse, I am in their memories. I won’t fade away because I exist.

I am no baby bird. I am an adult now, and nothing will drop me into the comfort of a mother’s arms. I only wish I could kill that instinct in me that still longs for that kind of connection. Fortunately, this feeling lives in a tiny corner inside of me, and on most days I don’t notice it. I try to give my boys the unconditional love and connection no mother ever gave me. I am lucky to have plenty of people who love and support me, even if I will never have a mother. I have figured out how to fly, and most of the time I fly just fine on my own.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

For a Friend

I was not there when you said goodbye when his heart finally gave out after thirty-five years.

I was not there when you said No again and again—when you whispered, Come back. I need you.

I was not there when you threaded your fingers between his—the way your mother instructed you to when you were little and she wanted you two to stick together. Take good care of him, she might have said again and again throughout your childhood. How could she have known that you would.

I was not there the last seventeen days while you slept by his side while you teased him about getting up. Get up. When you pleaded with him, GET UP. When you shouted at a god you no longer believed in when he did not.

I was not there when you kissed his forehead. When you ran your fingers through his hair, straightening it because you knew how he would have hated his hair looking crazy at a time like this.

I was not there when you left the room–when you looked back one more time at room 580— when you reminded yourself that it wasn’t him anymore—that he was gone. When you thanked the nurses for all they did. When you rode down the elevator feeling like you had forgotten something like a pit in your stomach. Like a boulder in your throat. Like an enormous piece of yourself. When you walked to the car and the sun heaved its warmth on you. When you said, Fuck you, to the Presbyterian Church bells as they echoed through the parking lot. When you got into your car. When you turned up the radio. When you screamed.

And then you screamed.

And then you screamed.

And then you drove home.
IMG_0097

20 things i’ve learned

In the last four months, my life has changed dramatically. After our separation, I stepped off of a cliff, not knowing where I would land. Here are some things that I have learned so far.

1. I loved someone and tried my hardest and it wasn’t enough.  I spent years blaming myself and trying to fix it in my brain and in counseling. I read books about how to fix the damage I imagined was irreparable from my childhood.

2. I still love him and want the very best for him, and we will be friends and parent our children together. I can’t imagine a life without him in it.

3. I am not a bad person and anyone who tries to make me feel like I am can go fuck themselves.

4. I am a good parent. This is really hard, and it isn’t perfect. But these boys are strong and we love them fiercely and they will be okay.

5. (I hope they will be okay.)

6. I don’t think I will ever be able to get married again.

7. It has been over a decade since I lived in an apartment complex. It is reassuring to discover that apartment managers still have raspy voices and cry at unexpected moments and wear Minnie Mouse shirts that proclaim, “I WANT IT ALL.”

8. I do not have enough time to file divorce paperwork.

9. I have no back-up plan.

10. There are people I thought loved me unconditionally who have dropped me like I do not exist, who have erased me from their lives. It made me sad, then angry. They are choosing to cut ties, and I am floating away.

11. My father can be kind.

12. My brief foray into online dating was fun/depressing. A lot of men take photographs of themselves taking photographs of their abdomens in bathroom mirrors.

13. I still wake up alone and look at my new curtains and wonder how I got here.

14. I am capable of losing weight without trying.

15. There are people who have lifted me up and changed me with their love and kindness. I am so grateful it is overwhelming.

16. Although it is not a comfortable place, I am learning to rely on others.

17. I thought this was a mutual decision, but then I didn’t know. I am the one who said the words. I am the one who left. I think we have both told ourselves stories about what happened, and maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

18. There are waves of intense fear and joy, and they almost always surprise me.

19. I liked to plan and control things. I thought I was good at this. I have had to admit that I was very wrong. I am 34 years old, and I don’t know anything for certain.

20.There is freedom in admitting this.

 

 

now with more vagina

I have been neglecting my blogging duties for months now. Just as soon as I am done grading this enormous stack of papers, I have something to say about the past four months, which I will post this week. For now, I wanted to say that I am taking this blog in a different direction, and making it more of a woman thang. You may now expect posts solely about tampons, menopause, baby food, and romance. Tell your friends!

Tagged , , , , , ,

Snapshots of My 20’s (so far) As Told by a Pending Playlist

Volume 1
The Strokes, Is This It

24 years old

I bought this album when I was a junior in High School. The garage rock revival was big back in 2002-2003. I should know, I was the music ambassador for my school’s newspaper. In my head I was. If you look back at the archives for my High School’s newspaper, I wrote a lot of music articles. But that is neither here nor there. I bought this album when I was 15 or 16. I saw The Strokes twice in my teens. Then they faded away after their second album, Room on Fire, and I just got tired of the first album and didn’t play it again until years later. My early twenties were riddled with booze, confusion and love sickness. I used to have drunk sex and felt confused while suppressing my intense feelings of love. It all came full circle a lot of the times. I was only having sex with one person. The only person I ever wanted to have sex with at the time. But I also wanted to watch movies with him. I wanted to have dinner with him. I wanted to go shopping with him. I wanted to help him pick out clothes and new glasses for him. I wanted to share my fears, dreams and desires with him. I wanted him to share his secrets with me. He did. All of that happened between us.

One night, as I was driving home after one of our sex rendezvous, the song Is This It started playing. You know how it goes. It starts out with this weird synth like recording that slows down after 4 seconds and the snare of the drums kick in. I think they’re snares? I don’t know the jargon but you know what I mean. Then Julian Casablanca’s sweet voice starts singing, “Can’t you see I’m trying. I don’t even like it. I just lied to get to your apartment. Now I’m staying here just for a while…Is this it? Is this it? Is this…it?” At the same time the guitars synchronize into a warm harmony like the rose blush on my cheeks on a good day. Then the second verse comes in and the bass does as well. The bass sounds as if someone is skipping in slow motion. When all the elements are combined, bass, drum, guitars and voice, it’s a sweet melody that feels nostalgic and defeated. It feels bloated with that sickness that unrequited love brings. Naturally, that night I began to cry on my way home. I didn’t want to leave his bedside but I knew the drill. It was a routine. Put the sheets back on the bed. Put my clothes back on. Never a kiss goodnight, just a tight hug for a job well done and a coy smile for the things we had done. In the morning, it never happened until the next night he felt lonely.

Joy Division, Isolation

20 years old

My grandmother died when I was twenty years old. To this day she is the only loved one that has passed away. The afternoon before she passed, I was working. My cousin called me at work to inform me that I should leave work because my grandmother was not going to make it another night. I thought I was okay upon hearing that. She had slipped into a coma a couple days before and we knew she was not coming out of it. I went into the restroom and my knees started to bend involuntarily. It was that feeling you get right before you pass out but I wasn’t passing out. My lower body was just caving in. I felt this immense weakness throughout my body and I sat on the dirty restroom floor and I cried. My grandmother died on a Saturday around 12 or 1am. In fact, I think this month was the anniversary of her death. The anniversary of her funeral is March 2nd or 3rd. I am sorry I can’t remember the dates. If you knew my grandmother, you would know she probably would not have given a shit about the exact date of her death.

It was later on that March in 2007 that I took a trip to Mexico with my best friend Hector. Hector and I are like brother and sister now. In 2007 we were just friends not quite adopted blood yet. In retrospect, it was half a disastrous trip and half amazing. Back in 2007, my self-esteem was at an all time low. I was still dealing with the death of my grandmother. I neglected school and withdrew from all my classes. I never told that to anyone though. I did not know what I was doing or where I was going. I thought the trip to Guadalajara and Guanajuato would be a good escape. Instead I just dwelled in my self-loathing. It did not help that the morning of our flight I started my period and wanted to die. While in San Miguel De Allende, a small bohemian like but mainly American populated city in Guanajuato, I hated Hector. God, I hated him. I wanted to cry over how much I hated him. He didn’t know how I felt. He’s never been ugly or fat. In Guadalajara we stayed with his family and they were all thin and light skin. His cousin’s friends were Mexican hipsters and he introduced me to them. Me, this chubby brown 19th century corn mestizo-looking girl to a bunch of Diego Luna (well not as good looking) Mexican hipsters. Yes, I was being over dramatic but in San Miguel, in our hostel room, while Hector went to drop off postcards at the post office, that is what I was feeling. I did not want him to come back. I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to lie in that bed all day and cry.

…Isolation, Isolation, Isolation…

Ian Curtis’ deep voice resonated in the deep cracks of my brain, that monotone voice that conveyed all the sadness and loathing that was bubbling deep inside me. I know Joy Division is something you discover when you are a teenager, and I did. However, when you are a teenager every song represents exactly how you feel. That is why Limp Bizkit was so popular. As a teenager, I felt like breaking shit up but thankfully I went with the route towards classic emo, also known as, post-punk. Instead of breaking shit, my soul just tore apart in an Ian Curtis kind of way, sort of.

Hector didn’t (and still does not) know how to deal with my petty emotions. At the time, they were real and legitimate. Now at 27, I am confident and strong…most days. Though, Hector, my best friend, is the type of guy who will tell me during my PMS ridden days that there is a bright side to gaining weight. I like clothes, right? Well, at least it’s an excuse to buy more clothes. He means well and I love him but he’ll never live that comment down.

But like I said, the trip was not all disastrous. Hector and I wound up drinking Palomas (tequila and grapefruit soda) at a corner café bar. We watched the sunset while a Mariachi group played. He recorded it for his ex-girlfriend. I apologized for being a downer. We exchanged drunken memories of how our weak childhoods made us feel. We walked back, somewhat drunk, to our hostel on the cobble stone sidewalks. Sidewalks that I like to imagine where there since the 19th century. Cobble stone sidewalks where corn mestizo brown girls stepped on every day in the days leading up the to Revolution.

Tagged , , ,

Moonmen

I can feel the strain of time

as I hear the months go by

I had pictures on the wall

that have made it past the door

 -

You can be me if you’d like

I will be kind oh I’ll be kind

to those who are me they will see

the space between the moon and sea.

 -

Though the tides have all but crashed

the pull is stronger than I asked

the waves have called me to their door

to reach the moon below the floor

 -

And when I wave you will not see

the craters’ impossibility

And when I drown you’ll look to find

where I was kind where you were kind

 -

Ben is waiting by my bed

asking about the books I’ve read

Steal a cloud, my little prince

You’ll live a thousand days like this

-

And if you don’t let’s share a grin

about the moons and suns we’d spin

around a sea you cannot know

where there isn’t a below.

 

We, who sleep with a knife

A new life

requires a death;

otherwise, it is

just a shuffling

of the same dull deck,

fifty-two cards we inherited

from our fathers,

adhering to rules relayed

before we were born.

Here we are now,

all that detritus

drifting into our eyes;

smoldering ashes,

combed back with a stare.

Anger should be respected,

even when it isn’t shared.

Appetite

My body knew before I did. I woke every morning, for weeks, my stomach roiling and angry. I forced myself out of bed and tied my running shoes on and threw my body out into the freezing morning for my training. I ran 6 miles, 8, 10, 15, 18, on nothing to eat, only water and gels I forced down for the longer runs. I came home and stretched and took a shower and waited to be hungry. I just wasn’t. I’d make a smoothie and drink it down. I’d have a piece of toast. Or I’d just have nothing at all. I have posted before about how much I love eating, all types of food, how I would think about food when I’d first wake up, or on my commute to work, or mid-yoga class, when my mind was not supposed to be on anything at all. This was not me.

After we decided it was over, it got worse. My belts became bigger. I bought a size smaller, and then a size smaller. The pants I once spilled out of hung loosely. My sister, who hadn’t seen me in a while, told me my ass is gone, my prized bodily possession, but that I refuse to believe. It’s there still, and it is good. I did lose 20 pounds in about a month, however, and I now weigh less than what I lied about on my driver’s license. I am not an unhealthy weight, but the drastic nature of all of it is unhealthy. I know that. I had some baby carrots and a beer for dinner the other night. My dad, who has been through four divorces, told me that he lived on beer, coffee, and cigarettes for about a year when he divorced my mother. I’ve been sticking to beer and coffee, but cigarettes don’t sound half bad, either.

I wanted to make a life for my kids that was different than my life growing up. I have tried to be smart and practical and make all of the best decisions. It didn’t matter. I still somehow fucked everything up. My body knows. This probably sounds strange and irresponsible, but in some ways I can understand a little bit about eating disorders. There’s something a little intriguing and exhilarating about not caring about food anymore. I like to be in control, and I am not anymore, so I have been cleaning the house daily and not eating.

This whole experience has been like an episode of Out of This World, that terrible 80s show, when the teenaged protagonist, secretly an alien, would touch her fingers together and freeze the world around her so she could reassess the predicament in which she found herself.

out-of-this-world-tv-show-maureen-flannigan

In the weeks immediately following my moving out, I feel like an outsider, removed from the world in which I once lived, and the one that everyone else still seems to be a part of.  It has given me a sad and bizarre but almost comforting sense of clarity.

In that song “Crazy,” Gnarls Barkley sings,

                          I remember when I lost my mind

                          There was something so pleasant about that place.

                          Even your emotions had an echo

                          In so much space.

I know exactly what he means.

In the past week or so, my appetite has returned. I think about food again, all of the time, and I am always hungry. Before school let out, several students gave me baked goods for Christmas, and I eyed them in their square, holiday-themed plastic containers and thought, I will never eat all of this. But then I did. I ate orange scones, ginger cookies, lemon muffins, and brownies. I ate it all.

I’m still drinking too much beer, and I don’t sleep very well, or enough. But my appetite is back. My body knows. Things will be better.

Photo credit: http://www.fourthgradenothing.com/2012/01/out-of-this-world-tv-series.html

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Limits of My Pacifism

Image

A couple of weeks ago I was involved in a bar dispute. I wanted to tell my mom but I knew she would judge me for being at a bar in general. I was fairly proud at the way I handled it. However, there was a split second where I looked at the beer glasses in front of me and clenched my fist and thought about throwing one of those glasses against the face of the woman who was testing my patience.

I’m not the type to fight. I always say that if someone wants to hit me, let them. I’ll press charges because that would be my ultimate revenge and lesson against them. I’ll ruin their record, hindering them from getting a decent job or at least making it harder for them to do so. They’ll remember me every time they apply for some aid and are denied and I’ll faintly in a ghost like way say “Was it worth it?” That’s my ultimate revenge. But if they end up murdering me then I’ll just haunt them and that’s just as good a lesson.

So this woman drops her drink on my back. Complete accident but I’m on my third or fourth drink so I’m annoyed. She keeps apologizing to me and I accept it, still annoyed. Her friend tells her “Don’t apologize. She’s making a big deal” I’m not but I say “Uh, yeah it’s a big deal” so she looks at me and says “Don’t apologize, maybe that way she’ll lose some weight”

HOLD THE FUCK UP. WHAT.  I’m trying to internalize what she just said. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Maybe you’ll lose some weight” Oh yeah, because getting beer spilled on my back somehow will change my eating and exercise habits. It was that moment when cheap Bud Light beer started to run down my back and onto my butt crack that I said, “Oh man, I’m going to lose some weight. If I were 20-30 pounds lighter, this would have never happened”

I stood there for a few seconds deciding to either cry or retaliate.

I was teased horribly throughout my elementary and junior high years. These are scars that are still fresh and I revert back to when I’m feeling singled out, rejected or talked about. I was teased over my weight, my skin color (even though we were all brownies. Kids always justify their dumbass logic. “Yeah but I’m not as brown as YOU,”) my hairy arms and my looks. Basically, I was teased for just being ME. For years I never knew how to defend myself. I never knew what to say back. I never learned how to stand up for myself. Then I worked in fast food, retail and at a public library and now at 27 my skin is a reinforced steel tank with grenade launchers. Kind of.

So I turn to her and say “That is a rude fucking thing to say.” It wasn’t the most earth shattering thing to say to someone who feels this pointless superiority over you. I’m a smart lady and I know that these people just want a reaction. They want to feel better about themselves by putting other people down. I won’t give them that satisfaction.

Other things were said and I can’t remember all of it due to the level of alcohol but I do remember feeling the bar around me going deaf because as she spoke non sense and pointed out her husband to me, “I don’t give a fuck who your husband is. You’re a rude bitch,” I felt this anger boil in me. This anger that has been boiling up inside of me for 20-23 years. I kept looking at the glasses feeling ready to just throw one for the satisfaction of my impulse and to shut her face up.

In those moments, my friends stood up for me. My co-worker called her a Cunt. Her husband came over, “Hey bro, this is between the ladies. You hurt my girl’s feelings you know?” WHAT ABOUT MY FEELINGS! I did manage to yell that over to him. Her husband seeing they were severely outnumbered grabbed her by her arm and left.

I still wanted to cry. I felt incredibly embarrassed in front of my friends. Someone had called me fat in front of them. It made me feel insignificant. It made me feel like I was 7 again and these two girls came up to me and kicked me in my legs for being ugly. I ended up crying on the way home. But I wasn’t crying because she made me feel fat or because I believed it. I thought of Mindy Kaling in that moment. “I’m not overweight. I fluctuate between chubby and curvy.” It’s one of my favorite quotes from her show. I was crying because I let some dumb stranger get the best of me. I wasn’t proud of calling her a bitch. I vowed not to use that kind of insult against anyone because it’s cheap and ignorant. In hindsight, calling her a bitch was probably a better decision than hurling a glass at her face. I had to choose the lesser of two evils and I daydream of working at The Huntington Library so I value my clean record for that reason.

I started crying because I was crying. It makes sense when you’re drunk.

“She’s not worth it. She is dumb. You’re beautiful”

“I know I am! I am smart. I am awesome. I am way smarter than her. Her life is over. She has saggy boobs, that other lady told me so. She hates me because I am obviously cute and awesome. But what’s the only thing wrong with me? I’m “fat.” I’m not fat. I am but I’m not. I don’t care. I like being thick but that’s the only thing ignorant people can attack me with. And I hate that and I’m crying for that”

I know I’ll never see this woman again. She has three kids and an obvious inferiority complex. She probably doesn’t have a very good life or didn’t have a good life. Someone who is secure with themselves and happy with themselves does not verbally attack strangers. Normal people do not do that. Everyone commended me at the way I handled it. The lady who originally dropped her drink on me told me “No you’re beautiful. I’m way fatter than you and she has saggy boobs and you don’t!” Bras are really awesome at making boobs look great. I told her she didn’t need to say that. She didn’t need to put herself down. It wasn’t about being fat.

When I got home, I woke up my sister and started crying to her. It wasn’t about being fat. I kept crying because I just thought, why do people need to be that way? It’s a rhetorical question. Why do women need to be that way? I know why. Millions of psychological issues. Not knowing how to control impulses and passions. Not being able to internalize the differences between people. Not knowing how to let go of petty thoughts and insecurity. I’m a fucking nice person and I really just wanted to go back and ask that woman, “Hey, chill out. Why are you so insecure? It’s ok. We can talk about it” Call me a sissy or a little bitch, because I’ve have been, but if people talked about their problems and had a healthy outlet for their thoughts, the world would be a better place. That’s some hippy utopian shit but I know a lot of people that quote John Lennon’s Imagine but would never actually practice peace, understanding or pacifism in altercations.

I almost didn’t. I don’t think I would ever actually hit someone or throw a glass at them. But it’s scary to think that I contemplated it for that second. I don’t want to be that type of person. I also don’t want to be the type of person who hurls cheap insults. It’s a reflection of your character. But it’s also hard to keep a stoic temperament when you’ve had three or four drinks.

Tagged , , , ,
midnightpears

Just another WordPress.com site

The Winter Bites My Bones

Collected Poems of Dennis McHale, 1986-2013

A Birth Project

Transracial Adoption from one black girl's perspective

The guilty preacher man

Inspirations, Words & Visual-reflexions

terribleminds: chuck wendig

Chuck Wendig: Freelance Penmonkey

projectophile

\ˈprä-JECT-oh-fahyl\ (noun) 1. A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper.

Return

Just another WordPress.com site

Another angry woman

Thoughts and rants from another angry woman

unkilleddarlings

Faulkner said, kill your darlings. I say, put them on the internet and let strangers read them.

MiscEtcetera v2

Random bits about libraries, digital culture, life, and writing

glass half full

This is my blog. I write a lot about autism, raising boys, and my own alcohol consumption. I also tend to cover topics like poop and toothpaste. You've been warned.

The War In My Brain

About Mental Health, Daily Struggles, My Cat, and Whatever Else Pops in My Head

Platform 9-3/4

A product of my boredom !

The Belle Jar

"Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences." - Sylvia Plath

Daniel Nester

writer, teacher, husband, dad, Queen fan, inappropriate, dilletante flâneur, Shader

a publisher of quality chapbooks

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 221 other followers

%d bloggers like this: