Category Archives: I dreamed…

Not such a Bad Motherfucker after all

Disclaimer: The following is a rather graphic story of the birth of my Son. If you are frightened by words like placenta then this may not be something you should read. Actually there really isn’t much on this whole blog that you should read. pussy.

I had plans. Of course I did, I am OC fucking D after all. What I failed to plan on was….well, every motherfucking thing. I wasn’t prepared at all. My goddamned know-it-all, I can do anything, Hawkins approach to life really fell through for me on this one. I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was expecting or why I thought I had it all figured out. Twelve hours of intense labor showed me how much of an idiot I actually am. I am truly humbled by the power of my own body, an uncontrollable force of nature which taught me one of the most important lessons of my life, I am not a bad motherfucker after all.

My water broke around 4am on July 24. I immediately got in the shower, washed my hair and shaved what I could. After I finished applying my makeup and blow drying and bouffanting my hair I made sure my bags contained all the necessary items and everything was organized and ready to go. Then I proceeded to do what I had planned on doing for as long as possible, wait. I didn’t want to be one of those women who rush to the hospital at the first trickle of water just to get sent back home or worse yet get pressured into an induction.

Contractions had not yet started so I knew the wait might be awhile. I had no idea that I would spend the next 56 hours waiting. About 12 hours after my water broke and contractions had still not started I began to wonder if my water had actually broken. I may have been convinced that it hadn’t if it weren’t for the somewhat continuous flow of water that leaked from my vagina every time I moved.

I bounced on my exercise ball. I walked laps around the house and the backyard and eventually the neighborhood. I did the few yoga poses I could still manage with my overwhelming girth. I paced and stomped the ground tantrum style and all to no avail. I performed hours of nipple stimulation and even briefly considered clitoral stimulation but decided that was too weird even for me. I ate an entire pineapple and swallowed dozens of Evening Primrose oil capsules. No contractions here. Back pain, yes. Swollen feet, yes. Thunderous thighs rubbing together as I limp and waddle my way around the block, yes.

After 48 hours I was exhausted. I hadn’t gotten much sleep in weeks and the anxiety of not quite knowing if I was in labor or not, should I go to the hospital or not, am I putting my baby in danger or not, had taken its toll on me. Not to mention it’s the middle of Summer and hot as fuck. I am done with this shit, this pregnancy, this slow ass labor, this uncomfortable reality that is about to get really fucking weird and I know it, I feel it coming. An anxiety I had not planned on was creeping in and making itself at home, firmly planted where I thought my calm resolve would be, where my bravery and strength should be.

This wasn’t in my birth plan. What was in my birth plan was plenty of “will not’s”, “do not’s” and “only in case of emergency’s”. I had planned on a natural birth without any drugs, epidural or measures of induction. I had planned on self-hypnosis and breathing to help me through the pain. I expected to ease through each phase with grace and quiet acknowledgement of my body performing a natural act. I planned all of this on my own after reading a few books and some brief research on the internet about childbirth. I wanted to channel the inner tribal woman in me, the primal female surviving on instinct alone.

I had theories and dead set conclusions on the matter of childbirth and what was “right” and what was “wrong”. Epidurals were “wrong”. Why? Because it represented weakness? Yeah, that must have been my reasoning. Drugs administered to ease pain and help restore calmness were “wrong” because once again they represented weakness. And of course because I am after all an addict and obviously any possible interaction between opiates and myself will result in yet another torrid affair of pills and lies. Induction was “wrong” because it would ultimately result in a cesarean section. Episiotomy was “wrong” because it was unnecessary especially since I had been performing perineum massage for weeks to prepare the tissues. An IV being put in my hand in case I needed fluids was “wrong” because it was really there to tempt me into accepting drugs. And above all caesarean section was “wrong” because what does a surgical procedure have to do with having a baby? Women have babies they don’t have operations and babies come out of vaginas not incisions. I left no grey areas, unless the statement “only in case of emergency” is grey but really it’s more transparent than grey, more an admission of “I know I’m not really in control if shit goes south and you are going to do whatever you want anyways so go ahead”.

What was there left to be “right” after so much being boldly proclaimed as “wrong”? Being left alone was “right”. Breathing silently through the worst of the contractions was “right”. Trusting my body to do what it naturally knows how to do was “right”. Staying calm and alert was “right”.

I didn’t follow my fucking rules any more than I have ever followed anyone’s rules. My contractions finally came around 8am on July 26 and by noon they were coming every 5 minutes and getting fairly strong (or what I considered to be strong at the time). Time to go. At the hospital they told me I was 5 cm dilated and fully effaced. Ok, halfway there, I can totally do this. Around this point I get in the bed and I do not get out of the bed until the next day. I had planned on staying pretty mobile and active during labor, pacing the halls and experimenting with positions. I did neither of these activities.

As the hours passed and the pain increased I became aware of one thing and one thing only, I was not prepared for this kind of intensity and fuck it all, I was scared. I couldn’t admit defeat quite yet, at least not out loud. Silently I was begging for the epidural, I was waving white flags and falling to my knees in humble defeat. But on the outside I was breathing through the contractions like a good girl and pretending to relax during the intervals. I was sipping my water and feigning interest in a television program.

Then shit got weird. The contractions got fucking strong, like going through a meat grinder at 60mph strong. I sat upright in the bed propped up in a lobster crawl like position through the worst of it. I felt my body tensing, bending and extending like Reagan in the Exorcist. I even projectile vomited just like the lovely demon child. I was just short of jamming a crucifix into my vagina when the Doctor proclaimed, “Okay, you are at 9cm. We are almost there.”

Transition, the worst was yet to come but it was almost over. I could do this. Maybe? Oh, fuck, no I can’t do this at all because I can’t breathe, I can’t focus and I can’t even remain conscious. Everything goes fuzzy, black and weird. I hear voices that seem very far away. I am hot as shit and keep begging for the air conditioning to be turned up. I am shivering uncontrollably, shaking and trembling. Every muscle in my body seizes with the coming of each contraction.

One hour later the Doctor comes back and proclaims, “still at 9cm”. “FUCK!” I gutturally yell as he removes his hand from my vagina and my hope from my soul. And he leaves.

It is midnight and my screams are disrupting the entire floor. I am a spectacle. Nurses assigned to other patients are peeking in to see what the racket is all about. Apparently natural births aren’t all that common around here. My exhaustion is apparent and I am now unable to even pretend to breathe in an effective manner. I get through each contraction by screaming as loudly as possible and then quickly pass out from the pain only to be brought back to reality by yet another contraction even stronger than the last.

One hour later, still 9cm. I give up. And the baby isn’t happy. His heart rate is low. I am unable to help him, I am too tired and I barely know who I am or why I am even at the hospital at this point. I admit defeat and ask for the epidural. Due to my very clearly written birth plan the Nurse actually does her best to talk me out of it. I convince her I will not regret this decision.

It takes forever for the anesthesiologist to arrive, he’s a busy man. In fact everyone at the hospital seems overworked and exhausted. I had been all too aware these past few months that I was only one of many pregnant women waddling around town. In fact I can’t remember ever having seen quite so many rotund bellies before. I am so desperate for a moment of peace that I don’t care how dark the circles are under the anesthesiologist’s eyes just stick that fucking needle in my spine and make me happy. As I scoot my giant naked ass towards the edge of the bed I begin to have one of the strongest contractions yet. I am instructed not to move, that it is incredibly important that I do not move, in other words, “stop fucking moving bitch, there is a giant ass needle going into your spine”. I sit still through the bowel shuddering contraction comforting myself with the knowledge that relief is now only moments away.

A few minutes later and I am calm, I am still and soon I drift off to a short well needed nap. I awaken to the Doctor telling me that I am still at 9cm but we can go ahead and start pushing. Two deep breaths, push, push. Two deep breaths, push, push. Rest. Although my nether region is comfortably numb I can still feel enough to tell when I am having contractions so I am aware of what my body is doing and I know when to push and when to relax. Two hours of pushing and every muscle in my back, neck and head have congregated into one angry charley horse. Then it happens, the Doctor tells me he has to perform an episiotomy. Oh fucking fuck fuck!! There goes my vagina, done, mutilated for life. I feel the pressure of the incisions welcoming my newly formed vag-ass. This should be a lovely wound to deal with for the next month, a gaping slice in my tenderest of fleshy parts to cushion me every time I sit, lie down, walk or god-for-fucking-bid sneeze. Whatever, this kid needs to get the hell out of my body and if that means cutting me open and turning me inside out while at least half a dozen people stare into my bloody gaping cavities then so be it.

Deep breath, deeper breath, push, push harder…..and I feel a release. He’s out. It’s quiet. Really fucking quiet. The only sound I hear is my own voice asking if he is alright. He is not being placed on my chest as I had expected. My breasts exposed and waiting for the warmth of my son grow cold. They tell me that he is having a hard time breathing. I see his limp body in the bassinet surrounded by nurses, a tiny oxygen mask being placed over his little face. His silence breaks my heart, his bluish skin rips my soul to pieces. Half an hour goes by and still I have not looked into my Sons eyes, he has not felt my skin against his face. The nurses assure me that he is fine and I am at least comforted by the fact that he has not been taken to the NICU. If it were serious he wouldn’t be here in the room with me. At least I have that. I surprise myself with my composure. I am not a hysterical mess, I must be strong for my Son.

Finally, he is placed on my chest just as the last of the placenta is being pushed from my uterus. He stares into my eyes (his vision unhindered due to the fact that I insisted that they not administer the standard erythromycin eye drops which make a baby’s vision blurry for about 12 hours). I know his eyes just as he knows mine. We have known each other for a lifetime, for a hundred lifetimes. In our quiet contemplation I know that nothing will ever be the same again. A human being just came out of my vagina, or should I say my vag-ass. Of course I knew he was in there for the past 10 months, his kicks and squirms were impossible to ignore but I don’t think I had fully realized the enormity of the situation (if you consider 8lbs 15oz enormous). This boy in my arms was mine, my responsibility. His health and well-being depended upon my own health and well-being. Selfishness is no longer an option, my own body hardly belonged to me anymore, a sacrifice of flesh and a surrender of vanity. Well, not a complete surrender of vanity I do still have a full face of make up on and I have recently touched up my lip gloss.

During the next few hours as I hold my Son close to my heart I try to calm down from the delivery. I am shivering uncontrollably, a side effect from the epidural. My body temperature is all over the place, freezing and sweating at the same time. My legs and feet begin to tingle with feeling and I am anxious to use the toilet instead of repeatedly having a catheter inserted into my urethra. What I am not looking forward to is the effects of the epidural vanishing completely and facing head on the pain and discomfort of the episiotomy.

I drift off to sleep around 3am. I dream a soundless, colorless, weightless vision of calm nothing, a sort of surrender to the unknown. I am exploring this non-place with quiet enthusiasm. I don’t know where I am going but I am not afraid and I do not hesitate.

I awaken to the weight of my Son in my arms, a weight that feels right as if my arms have always been empty, waiting to be filled.

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Listen

Last nights dream-

I was deaf, or at least very close to deaf, I could faintly hear voices, far away and mumbled voices. I was installing a helium tank to some kind of large mechanical device. Every time I turned a lever or knob, steam escaped from the machine in violent spurts and billows. A big man was giving me instructions from about 12 feet away but I couldn’t hear him. I kept screaming “what”?! He became frustrated with me and I could tell he was yelling at me but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. As soon as steam came out of the machine I would turn the levers back to stop it. I was getting the idea that this is exactly what I was not supposed to be doing but I was so frightened by the steam that I couldn’t help myself. The big man was irate and I was becoming afraid of him as well as the steam. I was screaming, trying to explain to him that I was deaf but he didn’t believe me.

Interpretation-

Well, I actually do have hearing loss in my right ear due to years of espresso grinders always being on my right side and yesterday I was especially annoyed by this slight handicap. However I think the dream meant much more than being annoyed by mumbled conversation.

While I am making a great effort at informing myself as much as possible about my pregnancy and what to expect with labor and the caring of a newborn I need to accept the fact that things will not turn out the way I am so carefully planning in my own head. This shit will be scary. I am not the tough guy I pretend to be all the time. It’s OK to admit fear, to open the valves a little and share what I am really feeling. Opening up emotionally may even be more frightening than the challenges I am facing as a new Mother.

The “big man” who is angry with me may symbolize my rational side. He is frustrated because I am being so hesitant, he doesn’t understand the fear behind honest, the strength it takes to reveal the truth. He is a basic thinking man, a mechanical man. I have a hard time hearing him because I am locked in my fear. The “big man” (rational thought) is far away, demanding me to behave correctly, to listen. This man also reminded me of my Father. He often comes to me in dreams and many times he has given me this exact advice, “listen”.

I am listening.

 

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Shamu sneaks into my bed

I have been writing for 8 hours, my back aches and my head is pounding. A pot and a half of coffee has kept the kid active all day. I feel like he is keeping me company, his kicks almost as rhythmic as my typing. I look back on what I have accomplished. Only 10 fucking pages. Seriously? I have been writing my entire life but I never really sat down and took it this seriously with a  goal in mind.

I am committed to finishing my novel before I give birth because I certainly won’t have the time to write for 8 hours straight once he pops out and demands every ounce of energy from me. My days will be consumed with breast-feeding and changing diapers and not much else. Any writing I do will most likely be a sleep deprived mess of words, lacking much sense or creativity. Or maybe I will be so inspired by my new role in life that I will start writing fuzzy childrens books with mice that wear purple underwear and ride bicycles while knitting hats for friendly whales.

Speaking of whales, I am going to have to face my all time biggest fear; motherfucking orca whales. Yep, Shamu is the absolute scariest thing in the entire world. I can’t even look at them on television without screaming and throwing my hands over my face. Those damn Sea World commercials get me every time. They show the fucking things flying, literally flying through the sky and I am supposed to act normal?

Well, I am going to have to start acting normal because I don’t want the kid to be afraid of something as stupid as a whale. I mean, in what situation am I ever going to find myself alone in the open water surrounded by killer whales? Which actually is not my real fear. I have dreams where killer whales are no longer confined to the sea or swimming pools at theme parks. They slither up and down city streets and make their way into my home, their giant black and white slimy bodies hovering above my bed, that giant eyeball staring right at me. Oh god, they are so fucking disgusting. But, I have to get over it. I cannot react to a Sea World commercial with a hysterical yelp once the kid is here, only encouraging other such irrational fears in him.

I’m not saying that I ever intend on going to Sea World with the kid. His Father can take him and they will have a lovely time while I stay home, far away from that big eye pressed up against the glass. If he brings home a giant stuffed Shamu I must smile pleasantly even if I am screaming on the inside. So, I guess this is just one more sacrifice I am going to have to make for the sake of a healthy, happy child. Pretending to like Shamu, I can handle that one.

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Morgan Freeman Sundae Special

Last nights dream

Breastfeeding while everything falls apart around me, chaos and destruction. I keep walking with this tiny baby latched onto my breast. I have no idea where I am going yet I am not afraid and I do not hesitate. Men are scrambling for cover, an escape. I keep walking. Booming voices call out orders. I keep walking. There are explosions in the distance and the not so distant. A plane takes off near me, people are running for the door trying to climb aboard and falling out as the plane takes flight. Fences are being erected on all sides of me and are being torn down just as quickly by the frantic masses. I am oblivious to the mess which surrounds me, my only focus is to nourish and protect the tiny baby with my own strong able body. And I keep walking.

A dream from a few years ago

I was at a carnival and saw a sign that said “Morgan Freeman Sundae Special” and I knew I had to have one. I walked up to the booth and ordered the special. I was handed an ice cream sundae the size of a human head. It looked exactly like Morgan Freeman but it was made entirely out of ice cream and candies, whipped cream and chocolate sauce. It had little chocolate chips for his adorable freckles on his cheeks and his eyes were made out of marshmallows. The chocolate ice cream was cold and delicious and I was especially excited to find strawberries inside his head as the brain! It was the best ice cream sundae I had ever eaten. I don’t remember it having a gold earring like I have recently seen him wearing. I wonder if I accidentally swallowed it?

Hmmmm….

I haven’t had a silly dream in quite a while. I used to dream about ridiculous stupid shit all the time. I have written down thousands of dreams starting from when I was about 7 years old. My earliest dreams were those of cartoons, like a variation of Scooby-Doo and Sesame Street. Grover joins the gang and Scooby gets jealous, shit like that. I also began having nightmares (night terrors) around the same age or earlier. I still have them and it scares the shit out of anyone near me when I wake up with a scream. I never remember what I am dreaming about when I have a bad nightmare, I really don’t want to know what could possibly be that horrifying.

So, where did my silly dreams go to? Is this what it really means to grow up, to be an adult? I dream about awful shit and weird shit, but no silly shit, like eating Morgan Freemans head or Michael Myers as an interior decorator who has an unfortunate way with blood that his clients find a bit off-putting but are too scared to complain about. Or Ricky Ricardo joining a “Biggest Butt” contest and all the antics of Lucy and Ethel trying to enhance his rear while stuffing ice cream and butter into his mouth. I miss the nights where I woke up laughing from my dreams. Seriously, nothing beats the shit out of laughing in your sleep so hard that you wake yourself up.

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lock the door

Unavailable now that I am conscious,

so very fucking conscious.

More present in my dreams, more accountable.

The inconsistencies of waking life,

make sense when I lock my door.

Behind the wall, underground and burrowed deep

into the wet earth, I tunnel through and around myself.

Becoming a man, a child, a mutant worm digesting itself,

copulation becomes disintegration, multiplying the existence of nothing.

 

 

 

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Freeway fist fight

Nightmares all night long

Doors falling off cars on the highway, hanging, suspended above the road.

Man killing woman, behind closed doors, the sound of flesh against flesh.

The impact of body against wall, crashing down around me.

I try to gather the birds but they keep changing, hummingbirds become parrots, songbirds become pigeons.

“Walk home, you know the way.”

I make my way through a crowded ghetto, men with guns in each hand and women with babies dangling from their necks like jewelry. A dice game takes over the sidewalk, nowhere to walk, “Bitch, watchu doin here?” Dark clouds hide the sun, acrid smoke burns my eyes, stifles my breath, don’t look concerned, be cool. An intersection filled with Baptist Sunday service church goers in gospel regalia, purple satin flowing in nonexistent wind.

“Green light, Bitch.”

Interpretation (inspiration)

Freeway, fighting, cars, chaos-

Yesterday I saw a car pulled over on the freeway and 3 boys were outside of the car on the shoulder, 2 of them were fighting, I mean seriously fighting. One of the boys was getting fucked up. I thought for sure the one boy as going to shove the other into traffic. Obviously we didn’t stop nor was anyone else stopping to assist so I have no idea what happened. I wonder if all 3 of them got back into the car and drove home? Maybe this was a normal afternoon for them, leave to pick up some groceries for dinner and stop on the freeway for a fist fight, makes perfect sense.

However, the fighting in my dream was going on between my parents, memories of which have scarred me for life as well as their 7-year-old lab mix that I inherited. For years everyone thought that she had epilepsy because she would have violent seizures pretty frequently. She was prescribed large doses of mood altering and brain disrupting medications to treat this disorder. After my Dad passed and she came to live with us she had a couple of seizures which I chose to treat with a little less medication and a more calm atmosphere. Gradually I weaned her off of all her meds and she hasn’t had a seizure in about 2 years. She didn’t have epilepsy she had parents that fought constantly and tore the house down around her.

Birds-

In chaos we try desperately to cling on to something familiar, even as the familiar becomes less and less so.

Ghetto-

Put on a brave face through the worst of the shit and you will eventually cross the street.

I truly feel that I have “crossed the street”, I am in a better place mentally and emotionally than I have been in years. But I will never fully escape the tortures that I have endured on the other side of the street, nor would I want to.

On a side note:

Whenever I wake up from an awful fucking nightmare, the kind that leave me breathless and shaking, I shove ice cream into my face until I am calmed. Only now I digest it, fucking weird.

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Hideous

Today went to shit as soon as I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror. I occasionally get a hideous rash that begins on my neck and travels up and around my face. Last night it began to appear and by the morning it had staked its claim on my entire face, clusters of tiny red bumps that itch and burn. This shit ruins my fucking life; I can’t leave the house, I can’t wash my face and I can’t put makeup on. My skin is so uncomfortable that activity of any sort is really out of the question, so I go back to bed. I wake up, look in the mirror, yep, I am still a monster and I go back to bed. I shut all the curtains and stare at the dark walls, trying to pretend that today doesn’t exist. My dreams are filled with anxiety and frustration. In one scenario I am late for an important dinner being hosted by my dead Grandfather. I am frantically trying to get myself together but I look like shit, my hair is a knotted mess, I stink like ass, my dress is wrinkled and no matter how much makeup I slather on my face I look like a fucking red-faced monster.

At one point today a delivery came which I was alerted to by the hysterical barking of my dog, Choe. I wait for the truck to leave and hesitantly crack the door open. At my door is a $300 package of facial products and makeup that I had ordered a week ago, good quality hypoallergenic products. I am pretty sure that it is cheap ass drugstore makeup and cleansers that cause this rash in the first place seeing as how I have super sensitive skin. So, at least once my swollen beast like face calms down I will have decent makeup that won’t lead to any further facially offending episodes. Unless of course the rash has nothing to do with makeup and my skin never goes back to normal again. In that case not a single person will ever see me again. Yes, I am the vainest fucking person I know.

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fingernails

I want to walk in a town I have never been to, a town I don’t even know the name of. I want to simply appear somewhere without a plan, without any expectations. I want to wander aimlessly; free of trappings, burdens. Slip into dark corners without fear, without hesitation. Walk with the wind, comfortable and light. Embrace the warmth of the sun and fall naked beneath the glow of the moon. I want to feel the hard ground beneath me and know that it is real, that I am real, to know that I exist as an actual physical being with lungs, skin and fingernails.

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Last Night’s Dream – Revised

Failed suicide attempts, over and over. Men shot themselves in the face and woke up completely healed.

I walked for days from bus stop to bus stop, the bus never came. I fell to my knees in exhaustion, people passed me, ignoring me completely. The hot gravel road dug into the palms of my hands, I looked towards the road and knew that I had only to crawl a few feet and it would all be over.

I later met a man covered in maggots, I wanted to clean him but he loved the maggots, they were all he had.

My (blind) Mother was driving a hearse, maneuvering around a graveyard, stopping to give directions to the men who were once again making suicide attempts. She was giving them advice.

Ok, I published this dream earlier today and apparently many people found it quite disturbing. It was not my intention to cause anyone concern. I always have dreams like this, in no way does it mean that I am in any way feeling suicidal. I am actually in a really good place right now. I am excited about being a Mom and I can’t wait to meet my little man.

Maybe a little interpretation of the dream might clear things up a bit.

Failed suicide attempts – I feel like I have done a lot of damage to my body over the years, not caring about my health at all. I am so grateful that I am in good health now that I am pregnant.

Walking for days, waiting for bus – This part of the dream took place near where I used to live in a  somewhat rural area. I would literally wait for hours in the sun for a bus that sometimes never came. It was a flashback of sorts to that period of my life. I felt very removed from the world there and trapped by the seemingly constant stale heat.

The man covered in maggots – I have always had extreme empathy for homeless men, disfigured men, lonely outcast men. But I know that I really can’t help anyone, the best I can do is to give a smile and say “hello, in there-o.”

Mom driving hearse – this one I can’t get into.

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Silence the bullshit

Two different dreams (they might be connected)

SSSHH

I found some videos of my Dad that I had never seen before. It was a video of him video taping a picnic. The camera would occasionally pan around and show him looking towards the camera. In the last scene he looks right at me and puts his finger to his mouth making a silent “sssshhh” and says “Regina, be quiet”.

Privacy?

I was in an awkward bathroom and I could hear a lot of people outside the room having a party or a fight, I couldn’t tell which. I had a bad case of the shits and was super paranoid about someone walking in. I finished and flushed the toilet. The water began to rise, and rise. As the brown reeking water teetered precariously at the rim, the door opened and in came my entire family. They had platters of food, balloons and flowers. However they were also arguing with each other so it was apparently a party and a fight going on. Actually, when family is involved there isn’t much difference between a party and a fight. I was mortified and screamed as the toilet sputtered and the flow of shitty water poured out and over the floor covering everyone’s feet in slimy brown stinking filth. They seemed oblivious to the mess and simply continued the quarreling and consuming of mini sandwiches and spinach dip. My attempts at stopping the flow with towels and such were to no avail and I eventually gave up.

Conclusion? A connection?

I am mortified at the idea of childbirth. I realize that it is obviously inevitable. I even made the huge mistake of watching birth videos on youtube. If you are pregnant DO NOT WATCH these sort of videos! I wish so fucking bad that I had not. It’s not necessary, it’s going to happen whether you are prepared for it or not.

I am also terribly anxious about my family being all up in my business. I don’t want a baby shower, I don’t want anyone asking me how I am and I really don’t want anyone fucking touching me.

My Dad was always so understanding of my quirks and gave me my space when I wanted it and gave the best goddamn hugs when I needed them. So, I think he’s telling me to chill, to shut the fuck up and just try to enjoy this time of my life without getting all caught up in the bullshit.

Thanks Dad, I love you.

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Groundhog Day Funeral Home

I had nightmares all night long, at least it felt that way. I awoke in the middle of the night; out of breath, shivering, soaked in sweat and completely disoriented. The only thing I could manage to do was to stumble into the kitchen and devour three Fiber One 90 calorie brownies. My god I am regretting this decision now (about eight hours later). As I calmed myself with chocolatey cardboard goodness I attempted to remember just what had caused this reaction. My worst nightmares I can rarely remember but I was finally able to put some pieces together. I was at a funeral home making arrangements for my Father. It went down pretty much the same way it did in reality, the total cost was even the same. The reason this was such a horrific dream was because I usually dream about my Dad in a much different way. We hang out, talk, smoke cigarettes, just shoot the shit. It always feels so real that I wake up feeling as if I had actually spent some time with my Dad. So what the fuck was this? He was just dead and I was going through all those awful fucking motions again of notifying family and friends, paying for the cremation, planning the memorial service, even the writing of the obituary notice. This may have been the worst night of sleep/torture I have ever experienced.

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