Tag Archives: Mother

The slow night

Sleepless nights slowly fade into a waking dream called daytime

I carry my child from room to room, his cries rising and falling like a desperate tide

Cradled in my arms he searches for my breast, for sustenance, comfort

We fall asleep side by side, warm soft skin against my chest

Slow cries give in to calm

Breath steadies and falls into place

Sleep comes slow, lingers briefly and without patience

Is it Monday?

 

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Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am a Mother

The unexpected acceptance

I saw a picture of myself and I didn’t scream and look the other way. The picture was taken shortly before I got pregnant and I was wearing tight jeans and a tiny little cardigan. I was out hiking with my dogs and I didn’t have on my usual heels and my makeup was a little worn through, although I did have a nice healthy flush to my cheeks, a natural blush brought on by physical exertion.

I looked closer and thought the strangest goddamn thing, I thought, “I was fucking thin, I really was.” I have gone through my entire life in a constant state of unease with my own physical appearance. Thoughts of, “I am fat”, “I am hideous”, “I am huge”, “I fucking hate myself”, have gone through my head on a continuous loop, over and over, ever louder and more demanding of my complete attention.

I never once felt content with my body, not one single part of it. I hated my thick thighs, my wrinkled knees and less than feminine calves. My strong shoulders and muscled back from too many years of lifting gallons of milk and bags of coffee beans. My skin, covered in freckles and other such bumps and spots, a mottled mixture of pinks, reds, yellows and even some blues. My stomach that even an hour of pilates a day never achieved anything close to toned or flat. My ass, oh god, my fucking ass, my giant dimpled ass. The more I worked out the bigger it got, more sturdy and shelf like, two distinct cheeks moving independently as I walked like they were trying to get away from each other, two separate entities seeking their own personalities. My small, child like breasts could not have been more out-of-place on my solid 5’9″ frame. I even hated my hands, my short bloated fingers and reddened knuckles.

The fucking battles that have gone on between my body and myself. I tried to starve it to death. It won. I tried to purge myself inside out, until my bowels floated in the toilet bowl along with undigested food speckled with blood. It won. I tried to drown it in vodka and cheap red wine. It won.

And now I am pregnant, a massive exaggeration of a woman, my stomach protruding further and further every day. My breasts now those of a woman, nipples swollen and waiting, anticipating. My hips and thighs growing larger, stronger, carrying both myself and child. My ass has successfully taken on the personalities of both Mother and whore. My arms eagerly await the weight of a baby. My body is no longer something to hate, to destroy. My body has created love, a love I never knew existed. A love I never thought I could deserve. A love I feel with every kick, with every wiggle between my ribs.

After I give birth and return to my “normal” size, I wonder if I can manage to be somewhat accepting of my body, to possibly be able to see the girl in the photograph instead of the girl in the mirror. Because those goddamn mirrors are tricky ass liars and they always will be. Will I still have a little bit of love for myself, for my body? The body that created something so beautifully alive and real? Or will I return to my old ways of self-hatred, name calling, restriction, purging and all the other destructive means I have construed to torture myself? I would like to think that all that shit is behind me or at least most of it; splattered on the wall behind a filthy toilet, scrawled into the door of a rest stop bathroom and spit into the sink like a mouthful of twenty-dollar cum.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

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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Filed under I am Pregnant, I dreamed..., Something that happened

Selfish

My greatest desires are for solitude and anonymity. Neither of which are possible especially now that I am bringing a new life into this overwhelmingly intrusive world.

I am a selfish ass bitch, always have been, mostly with my self. I am an only child which automatically gives a person the right to be selfish but I have taken selfishness to an entirely new level. I am not talking about the kind of “no, you can’t have a cookie, they are mine” kind of selfishness but the much more destructive kind that causes a person to withdraw from reality without any consideration for those who still reside in a world where people say “hello”.

I am secretive and sneaky as shit when I need to be. I became an amazing liar, mostly to myself. I faked a life and almost succeeded at death before I realized I was so full of shit that I could barely breathe. Terrible way to die, suffocating on your own stinking shit.

Opening myself up, airing out my rotting cavities, hanging my bloody panties out on the fence, staring into my own asshole just to see what’s in there. Offending my senses, arousing my curiosities, I peered further and found that I am not just a selfish alcoholic on the verge of collapse, that I am flesh and blood, that I am real.

Now that I am pregnant and feeling more “real” than I ever could have imagined, I would hope that I would lose some of my selfish ways and see shit from some entirely new plane of Motherhood consciousness that I should somehow have gained access to. No such luck. I am feeling even more selfish, more reserved and less communicative than ever. But I am remaining positive that the destructive nature of these emotions are being put to good use and with all hopes of a positive outcome for the kid. I am positive because now the basis of my selfishness is founded solely on love. Love and a huge amount of “get the fuck away from my kid or I will kill you” sort of emotions.

Fuck, all I do is contradict myself. In one afternoon I address and mail about 100 invitations to a baby shower that I am halfheartedly committed to and then suddenly and belligerently swear off all human contact simply because I couldn’t fit into my fluorescent Hawaiian gown.

As I resign myself to black stretchy yoga pants I realize what I am really feeling (besides the kids knees pounding into my ribs). I am afraid. Afraid of the moment when the kid is no longer just “mine”. He is going to come out and be a part of the world. He will be held by other people, cuddled by family and friends, stared and cooed at by strangers and licked by my dogs. His toes which once tickled my insides will soon be kissed by lips that are not mine. My selfish ass bitch self is fucking angry about this. I want to scream out, “He is mine motherfuckers, back the fuck off!”

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

Booty shorts and birth control

The 7 headed Downtown, early afternoon:

A woman of indeterminable age, wrapped in layers of fine black cloth, head wrap and tattooed hands talking to younger woman with unkempt hair and booty shorts.

Tattooed hands – I’m pregnant with my ninth.

Booty shorts – Nine? Whoo! I got five, I’m tryin’ for one more.

I wanted to scream at these ignorant assholes. I mean, fucking seriously? Overpopulation is a critical issue and we have women competing in breeding races. Yes, I am contributing to the problem but I was responsible with my reproductive health for many years until I was prepared to provide for another human being taking up space on this planet.

Disclaimer: I can talk shit about welfare recipients because I was one most of my life.

The more kids you have the more money you get. Backwards cultures believe a huge family gets the most respect. Ignorance breeds ignorance. How many poor, stupid kids have to be born into this overcrowded world before public assistance programs will require family planning education courses to be taken in order to receive each monthly check?

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Filed under I am Pregnant, Something that happened

A kick in the face

Today I am reminded that I am an alcoholic, that I am a bulimic, that I am very fucking far from cured of any of the self-destructive behaviors that I am so undeniably addicted to. I can walk around with my rotundly pregnant belly and want a drink just as badly as the drunkard falling over in his seat on the bus. I can feel my baby squirming around inside of me and want to binge on junk food for hours just for the sake of purging, the wonderful empty high of bulimia. I can imagine holding my Son in a few months as vividly and yearningly as I can imagine smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one afternoon.

Annoyance, simple everyday annoyance brings this shit on. Not life shattering events, not horrific news of some tragedy, not a fight amongst lovers or friends, not even slightly more complicated feelings like anger or stress, just plain old annoyance.

I had an appointment today, I contemplated not going, I always do, and I always go. I seem to have a busy calendar as of late with appointments at the Doctor, the Dentist, the Therapist (sort of, not really an actual therapist.) You see, when you go to the OB/GYN and are honest about your shit they will refer you to a counselor type person to assist you through your pregnancy. The woman I was assigned to happened to be an addiction and eating disorder specialist, so she will obviously know everything there is to know about me. It actually isn’t all that bad. I talk incessantly and answer questions before she can ask them and leave her pretty much speechless except to schedule our next appointment.

The annoyance began on my walk to the train station. The sun was absolutely blinding, the wind blowing my hair into my face, wisps sticking to my lip gloss slathered mouth. My feet already blistered, begin to throb within minutes. I don’t want to be outside today, the traffic too loud, the streets too crowded. Waiting for the train, I shift my increasing weight from foot to foot and try to avoid eye contact with some creepy asshole staring at me. Already I am done with this day. I want to escape, I want to scream, I want to fall down on the ground and throw a tantrum like a child.

Trudging my way up the long ass hill to the Hospital I almost take off my heels because who gives a fuck anymore, barefoot and pregnant, embrace it.

My annoyance turns me into an uppity ass bitch, click clacking in my heels down the hospital halls. What a scene I am, in my dress and coat, my bouffant and my eyebrows. I heave my bright red leather luggage I haul around as my purse, up and onto the reception desk, rummaging for my ID.

“Yes, I am her, can’t you tell? Are there others?”

Losing track of what’s real I want only to sit and write, to ignore the day that surrounds me, engulfs me.

The hour goes by in the usual fashion, my prattling on about healthy meal consumption and yes, of course I intend on attending meetings more regularly.

I leave and face the harsh assault of sunlight, traffic and obnoxious ass people crowding around me on the train.

Why did I leave the house today?

Hauling my ass home, completely aggravated with every living thing from the green grass and bright flowers to the singing birds in the trees. I don’t even wave back to the friendly neighbor who chirps hello from her porch, I just want to go home and crawl into bed. No, what I really want is to go home, open a bottle of wine and light a cigarette. My brain doesn’t give a shit that I am pregnant, it wants what it wants and it is screaming it loud and clear.

Well fuck you brain, fuck you Regina, you selfish goddamn brat. You don’t get what you want anymore.

Home. I write. I eat frozen yogurt. I watch my dogs play. I take a nap. I am ok.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

A momentary lapse of judgment and the long tittied tribal woman

I recently experienced a slight interruption in my normal thinking or should I say the way that I have been accustomed to thinking for the past 25 years. I had this crazy thought that I should try to be a little less anti now that I am going to be a Mother.

I started doing something as normal as planning a goddamn baby shower. I generally avoid celebrations of any sort especially those that revolve around me.

The last time I had any sort of celebration in my honor was when my Mother in law decided to throw me a surprise party the morning after my 21st birthday. Needless to say I was not in the best mood physically or mentally. I awoke to her knocking on my door and informing me that it would be a good idea if I cleaned up the house a bit because the guests would be arriving shortly. I struggled to comprehend not only what my Mother in law was doing there but why my cousin was naked in my living room and why there was barbecue sauce all over the television.

Being the ever gracious girl that I pretend to be, I got myself together quickly and acted as cordial as possible while drowning my hang over with a bottle of Bacardi. Before I had even finished scraping the sleep from my eyes or cleaning the vomit from the toilet, I had a house full of guests and birthday cake being shoved in my face. It truly was a lovely gesture that I was neither prepared for or felt in any way deserving.

I never wanted another such event to take place in my lifetime but like I said I have been feeling a slight inclination to try to be less anti everything. So, a baby shower, it makes sense, I am pregnant after all and that is probably the most appropriate time to have such an event. And there is the awesome bonus of free shit that you don’t want to buy anyways. Why would I want to spend money on baby blankets and pacifiers when there are shoes and tweed coats out there waiting for me? God, I am really fucking selfish and vain. At least I know it, I own it and I’m good at it.

After being hounded with everyone asking me, “when is the shower?” and not a single person offering to handle the event for me (not that I would allow such a thing again) I decided to give in and plan the bitch. At first I was actually enjoying the whole process; the lists, the location and ideas for outrageous invitations. My invite list quickly reached an incredible 75 guests, co-ed of course (there isn’t anything more frightening than a room full of women). I was dead set on an adorable building in Balboa Park that happened to be available the exact weekend that I had in mind. I had already started cutting up pictures of long tittied tribal women from my collection of National Geographic magazines for the perfectly Regina made invitations.

Then things got complicated, I realized how much everything was going to cost, especially the location that I wanted. I realized that I was going to need some help and I can ask for help once but never, ever twice. I started to really think things through as myself, not the glowing mommy to be that I was pretending to be and I came to a very easy conclusion, fuck it all.

I feel better now, relieved to be rid of yet another ill-fitting mask. I’m still into the long tittied tribal women art project though, maybe I will make a collage for the kids room.

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Filed under I am Pregnant, Something that happened

A soggy mess and the death of a friend

“I’m going to pick you up after school, okay honey”

“Okay, Mom”

She walked out the front door and down to the corner where the school bus picked her up every morning. A few other children were already gathered nearby. Greetings were not exchanged, her presence was not acknowledged. She appeared not to mind as she opened a well-worn book and began to read. The bus arrived promptly and she was welcomed aboard by the driver’s warm smile.

There was a book fair at school that day and she had a pocket full of money, saved up for months from lemonade stands and extra chores around the house. Books were her best friends and she was anxious to meet her new pals.

The book fair took place after school and she would have to be patient through hours of tediously boring spelling, math and science classes. As the teacher repeated herself for the sake of the slower students she thought she might jump from her seat and scream out loud. But she would never ever do anything so rude. She was respectably poised, restrained to a painful degree, back straight, hands clasped and teeth clenched.

At lunch she sat by herself under a tree and opened her lunch sack. She ate her sandwich slowly, with care and contemplation, the way she did most things. The other children watched her and snickered both behind her back and to her face. Most days it didn’t bother her, today especially.

The bell signaling the end of the day finally rang and she walked hurriedly to the auditorium where the book fair was held every year. Book shelves had been arranged in a large circle with tables lined up in the middle of the circle and at one end was a woman with a silver cash box waiting for the influx of knowledge hungry students.

The smell of freshly printed books was intoxicating, the rows of brightly colored book covers was dizzying. At the end of one table she spotted her first pick, the new Beverly Cleary; Ramona, Age 8. A perfect way to start her shopping adventure. Her arms quickly filled up, the sharp corners of each book making red indention’s on her thin pale skin.

The rush of the hunt sent endorphins pulsing through her brain, she was calmly ecstatic. She handed over all of her hard-earned money without hesitation or regret. Her books placed in a plastic bag and handed to her with a smile. She walked out of the auditorium with a slight skip to her step and headed to the corner where her Mother had promised to pick her up.

The last school bus was just leaving and only a few cars remained in the parking lot. She was not surprised that her Mother was late, she had grown not to depend too heavily on the promises of adults. She simply settled down in the grass and opened a book.

The day which had begun sunny had turned gray and dismal. She waited patiently. A light misting of rain began to fall and still she waited, patiently. A few teachers drove by slowly and asked her if she needed someone to contact her parents and she declined, not wanting to be a bother. The custodian locked up the gates to the parking lot as the last car pulled away.

“Hey, sweetie. You need a ride?”

“No, I’m fine.”

And she truly felt that she was perfectly fine, under the tree which provided a bit of shelter from the lightly falling rain, with her books, waiting patiently.

An hour or more must have passed and finally she became uneasy, quickly coming to the conclusion that her Mother had forgotten about her. Her decisiveness quickly led her to the decision to simply walk home. After all, she knew the way, it was a long way but she was sure she could manage. She was sure of most things, especially when it came to accomplishing things on her own.

She began her walk in a light mood, enjoying the feel of the rain on her face and the smell of wet asphalt. Crossing the freeway overpass she paused to look down upon the passing cars through the chain link fence. She had never seen the freeway from this perspective and it made her feel overwhelmingly insignificant. The rain had begun to fall a bit more heavily, soaking her socks, her toes numbed almost immediately. Her walk home continued as passing motorists paused briefly out of concern. She declined each offer of assistance not out of the “never talk to strangers” theory but because she truly did not feel like she needed help, her independence and tenacity both an asset and a hindrance.

She had walked close to a mile when the sidewalk crumbled and disappeared. Weeds and mud lined the busy road, the rain creating an annoyingly slippery surface on which to complete her journey. Dusk arrived stealthily through the gray skies and steadily falling rain. Her shoes and socks were completely covered in mud, her pants soaked to above the knees. Walking became a trudgingly difficult task with slow, thought out steps to avoid slipping in the thick mud.

Her shoulders and back ached from the heft of her book bag, the plastic handles digging into her palms painfully. No amount of shifting the weight from arm to arm alleviated the burden. She began to resent the books she had been yearning for months.

Finally she reached her street, she could see her house at the end of the block, it’s empty driveway and darkened windows. Slowly she made her way home and opened the door with the key she kept tied on a string around her neck. She removed her shoes and clothes heavy with rainwater and mud and left them on the floor of the garage. She would deal with them later, right now she needed something warm and clean.

Cold and naked she walked down the hallway to her bedroom, dragging her sack of books behind her. She slipped on her pajamas, her wet hair clinging to the sides of her face and sat on the floor, dumping the soggy mess of books in front of her. They were ruined, all of them. Pages fell apart through her fingertips, ink smearing across her hands. She held her face in her cold hands and cried, her tears mixing with dirt and ink creating a face like that of a painted woman in the midst of a breakdown. She fell asleep right there on her floor, a sad, wet little girl, defeated not by having been forgotten or for having to walk home miles in the rain but by the fact that she was unable to save her books, as if it were her who had caused their destruction.

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Happy Meals taste like tears

I didn’t eat much fast food as a child. Unlike many of my friends, my family ate dinner together every night. My Mother served the sort of home cooked balanced meals that lack originality but get the job done; meat, vegetables, potatoes and the occasional casserole. Ketchup, salt and pepper helped blend everything together to a palatable consistency. My Dad really loaded up on the salt, leaving a ring of white granules on the table once his plate had been cleared. He never held back on the complaints and I kept my mouth shut. While he loved to spur on the furious wrath of my Mother I lived in constant fear of her tirades.

“Goddamn, could this meat be any tougher?”

“Then you cook the fucking dinner from now on.”

“I wouldn’t make the dog eat this shit.”

“Fuck off and die.”

Between the lines they cared about each other in a strange and volatile way.

When I was about 7 things began to change, most noticeably, the dinner situation. We  weren’t eating together quite as frequently. Some nights I was left to fend for myself, a bowl of cereal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One afternoon my Dad brought home about 30 hot dogs from a gas station. I had never had a hot dog and I was so intrigued I must have eaten at least 5 of them, smothered in mustard and sweet relish squeezed from plastic packets. Our table was a mess of paper hot dog holders and soggy napkins, a crime scene of sorts, a portrayal of our current state as a family in the midst of a meltdown.

As the deterioration of  familial structure became more apparent I grasped blindly for some sense of security and familiarity. Everything was falling apart, crumbling before me and I was helpless to stop it. One night I awoke to find my Mother in the kitchen packing Tupperware into a box. I asked her what was going on and she told me matter of factly that “we’re moving, just us”. The next day my Dad picked me up from a friend’s house after school. He was driving a car I had never seen before and he looked tired, worn out, defeated. He said, “we have to talk”.

We went through a McDonald’s drive-thru and he got me a Happy Meal and a milk shake. Not only had I never had a Happy Meal, I had never even been through a fast food drive-thru. Something was seriously wrong and no amount of processed meat, salt and sugar or the brief delight of a plastic toy could conceal the fact that the shit was about to hit the fan.

We walked to a vacant bench near the playground. Kids squealed with innocent joy, birds chirped in nearby trees and the Autumn sun glared off my Dad’s eyeglasses. He encouraged me to eat my hamburger as he sipped at the chocolate shake. I struggled to swallow the greasy meat and salty fries, each bite another reminder that everything was suddenly different and might not ever be the same again.

“Honey, you know how when you are bad you get sent to time out?”

I nodded my head, eyes cast downward. I had never been sent to “time out” nor had I ever even heard my dad use the term before but I was of course familiar with the phrase and the meaning of the word.

“Well, Daddy was bad and I have to go away for a while, time out for grown ups….prison.”

I stared at my food, carefully spread out on the waxy paper, the colorful box and plastic toy nearby as if for comfort.

“How long?”

“I don’t know for sure, Honey. A year, maybe more. You and Mommy are going to be okay, you just do what she says and be a good girl.”

“Okay.”

I looked at my Dad only briefly, it hurt too much to know that this might be the last time I ever see him. That was how I felt, the final goodbyes, one last chance to make it right kind of moment. But there was nothing left, I was beginning the process of shutting down, a process that would continue for many years to come.

“Can I go play on the swings now?”

“Yeah Honey, go play.”

I walked over to the swings slowly, my head spinning before I even pushed off, feet sinking into the sand and hands tightening around the hard twisted metal of the chains. The cathartic rocking of the swings created a swooshing soundtrack to the spreading numbness inside me.

I felt abandoned and alone even as I slid in to the seat next to my Dad, his arm reaching around my shoulders in an attempt to reassure me that everything was fine. We were both too smart to believe it but neither of us brave enough to say it. He dropped me off at home and I watched him drive away knowing that life had changed, that I had changed, aged years in a matter of moments.

When I walked into the house, my Mother asked me,

“Did you have a good time with Daddy?”

“I had a Happy Meal.”

 

 

 

 

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Filed under I remember, Memories of Dad, Something that happened

I want to feel like this forever

“When was your first drink?”

“God, two years old I guess”

“Two?! Ok, I will rephrase. When was the first time you got good and drunk?”

“Yeah, two. But I know what you mean. I was 13 the first time I willingly got drunk”

Ok, here are explanations of both….

Booze was never taboo in my family, it flowed freely at parties and my parents never kept track of what was in the house. In fact my first official drunk was when I was just a toddler. I obviously don’t remember this but I have heard my Mom tell the story over and over, laughing every time. I apparently stumbled over to the coffee table, grabbed a glass of red wine and downed the entire thing, a professional drinker at two! She told me that I screamed all night long, eyes rolling around in my head (I must have hated the spins as badly then as I did years later). She was too afraid to take me to the hospital for fear of persecution from Child Protective Services. I toughed it out that night, I survived to drink again one day. There is no stopping a determined toddler with DNA mapped out perfectly for addiction and substance abuse.

My next good drunk, New Years Eve, 1993. I swallowed my first glass quickly, my mood as sour as the champagne. I was struggling with bulimia, and by struggling I mean not having enough time to vomit between meals or enough hours in the day to obsessively run mile after mile. I hated school and everyone there. The only solace in my life was my new-found love affair with smoking.

My second glass, enjoyed a little more than the first but still gulped with purposeful intent. I feel the bubbles in my nose and this makes me gag a little as I am reminded of the sensation of vomit spraying out of my nostrils which unfortunately is a daily occurrence.

My third glass marks the end of the first bottle. I sneak out the back door for a smoke. I hold my glass of champagne in one hand and my Marlboro Light in the other. I feel like a fucking supermodel for about half a second. I am in love with that fleeting sensation of power, sex and maturity. I am no longer a child, if I ever was one at all. I stare at the night sky inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, luxuriantly.

The second bottle of champagne disappears in no time at all. My Mom is asleep in front of the television, Dick Clark counting the year down like pennies thrown in a fountain, meaningless wishes and a waste of time. I stumble into my room and collapse onto my bed. I have one loud continuous thought reverberating through my head, “I want to feel like this forever, I want to feel like this forever….”

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Babies are terrible conversationalists

Now that I am pregnant I am finding that people think I am suddenly going to be a different person. That I will conform in some way to the ideals of proper motherhood or that I will suddenly care about interacting with other people’s children. Just because I am having a child of my own does not mean that I have to like children in general. It would be a wonderful thing for our over population crisis if every person who didn’t care much for children decided not to have any of their own but it just doesn’t work like that. I know I will adore my Son but fuck off if you think I care about your child enough to want to crawl around on the ground and act like an idiot for his enjoyment. I actually have never even held a baby or changed a diaper in my life. I never had the slightest desire to associate with babies, I mean what do they really have to offer? They are terrible conversationalist’s, they shit and puke all over everything, they are truly rude little bastards. Oh, they are cute, right? Well my dogs are pretty goddamned cute and I have never expected visitors to pay attention to them or say how adorable they are and I was never offended when people simply didn’t want to came into my house because of them.

All that being said I surprisingly enough always knew I would have kids of my own and that I would be a decent Mother, probably a really good fucking Mother. Not that I had anything to learn from but maybe because I had plenty of “what not to do” experiences with my own family. Maybe because of how passionately protective and devoted I have always been with the family that I have created in my life. Or maybe just because some shit, you just know.

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