Entries Tagged 'daily drama' ↓

Despite that he quit his job and has no way to pay child support and I could be living in the land of $100 to last a month, I’m not freaking out.

Despite that I dropped over 11 pounds doing the raw food diet for only five days before I quit it, and there’s no better motivator for an anorexic relapse than accidental weight loss, I had a burger for dinner.

Despite staying up all night working on a new sort of job thing that, if it works out for the future is basically easy described as a facet of my most perfect career, I didn’t continue the habit.

Despite having every reason to lose my shit and start sniffing glue as a mechanism for making the world stop controlling me, to allow me to control it, I’m still sitting here, sober and glue-free.

I have energy. Not the nervous energy spawned of too many nights without enough sleep and food, and too much coffee and cigarettes, with plans to concur the world and build small fortresses.

I have non-aggressive mood swings. I’m accepting things that usually would seem like too much to handle. I’m eating when I need to. I’m sleeping closer to regular hours. My mind is level-headed and I don’t feel sucked down by anything into an abyss of cannot-deal, even with all of The Ex’s shit that’s going on.

Quite simply, I feel a little peaceful. I feel like I’m gonna be alright.

I’m not happy (because I don’t really know what that is), but I’m definitely not unhappy at the moment. I’m floating in that way one might on a lake in the middle of summer, without time in their way. And I’m okay with it.

I only have one wicked side effect, which is actually pretty awesome when you consider that potentials can include liver failure. My ADD is much worse. Scratch that. My ADD has mutated. I’m not having problems focusing on one task because I’m distracted easily by outside thoughts, media, movement, etc. – I’m unable to retain information for long periods of time.

This means that I won’t be writing anything that involves comparisons because I can’t maintain what point A is about in relation to point B, because once I finish thinking about point A and move to point B, A’s info flies right outta mah head.

Also, I can’t do sodoku anymore.

Or apparently remember to hit the cue ball when playing 8 ball.

Anyway, back to the good. (See?)

I also have a sense of humour back that I haven’t had in longer than I can remember – one not entirely based upon that’s what she said jokes and dry, sarcastic one-liners. This is humour for pure performance sake. This is how yo mama was invented, I think; the initial comedian must have been on depakote.

So, even though Zoë is the size of a 2-year old, with the emotional maturity of, well, her father, and the attitude of a 14-year old, I’ve been laughing with her a lot more. Even on the tough days when she ends up looking more like this

than

I’m finding it easier to keep my cool and even, gasp, use the funny to my own inner-time-out-needed advantage.

Case in point: today was the whiniest day in the history of whininess. And I kept asking her to stop and just, you know, speak normally. Have some patience. Not freak out when her shoe didn’t go on perfectly on the first shot, or she didn’t get a lollypop.

Then, I started having had quite enough, thank fucking you very fucking much.

Instead of losing my shit and yelling, or getting overly snappy with her, I got pedantic.

Now, I don’t blatently lie to her, but I’m not above over-exaggeration. So, when the 137th whining moment occured, I may have said that she needed to stop whining because my head might explode. It’s not the first time she’s heard that one.

I don’t know if you know this about me, but I tend to go off on tangents.

</blatant sarcasm>

After my head exploding was firmly implanted as a visual image in my three-year old’s mind (why yes, I am an awesome mom), I had to describe the detriments of such an occasion. Namely, that she would have to clean up the mess. And lo-and-behold, we were at a restaurant who had paid an interior design company to tell them to install earthen-inspired stone tiles on the external walls, right next to our booth, and they had listened to the interior designers. Which, believe you-me, though beautiful, what with the perfect colour scheme and mortar-to-stone ratio, would not lend well to a cleaning session post neural detonation. And then I explained that this would make the restaurant owners pretty upset, so then

I remember, two weeks ago, needing anger management.

I wasn’t the girl who walked out of the bedroom after being raped, dazed and confused, shoving toilet paper in the crotch of my underwear and wondering how I would put the pieces back together. I got raped, I accepted it. It didn’t scar me or redefine my life or demeanour and it definitely didn’t ruin me any more than had already been done.

But I’m one of the rare few and I’m conscious of it. I feel badly about the people who had a hard time, a terrible time, the ones who still dream, feel like they’re suffering it again and again. The people who shrink away from a touch, who can seemingly never fully trust another person who might have that power again.

Logically, I understand it; emotionally, I don’t.

I can watch episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit without flinching. I think it’s something wrong in the wiring of my brain.

Anyway.

The recent events surrounding Roman Polanski’s arrest, Whoopi Goldberg’s comments on The View and all of the Free Roman spectators and support has pissed me the fuck off. He, a director, actor, writer had something really shitty happen to him in the form of his wife’s murder. He grew up in the ghetto in Poland, his father was put to work in a camp during World War II and for all I know, my great-grandfather might have been one of the fucking assholes responsible for his mother’s death in Auschwitz.

He’s had a hard row to sow, so to speak.

That doesn’t excuse anything.

The fact that anyone would support his want for freedom from prosecution makes them also a fucking asshole to me – I don’t care if he’s a genius or whatever. There is no way, ever in my lifetime, that I will consider sex between a 13-year old and a 44-year old okay.

Even if it’s consensual. Because there’s no such thing with such a large age gap, especially with such a child. Because there’s such things as trust, power and position of authority – all of which the 44-year old had in this situation.

Even if she showed up at his hotel, car, home, film set or the bar’s bathroom, slipped herself a roofie after downing half a bottle of champagne and said “Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl.”

Even if she’d already slept with half the football team, blown all of the chess club and was hooking for meth.

There’s no way it’s okay for a 44-year old man to have sex with a 13-year old girl.

There’s no way that isn’t rape, and there’s no way that that act – the one that involved oral, anal and vaginal sex – being called rape-rape or sex with a minor, will ever be justified.

There’s just no way.

If my daughter were to come home, tell me that someone had given her booze and drugs and then had forcible sex with all of her major orifices while she said no, I wouldn’t stop to consider the individual’s career – I would be out for blood. Regardless of whether she was 13 or 19 or 29 or 40, and he was 13 or 19 or 29 or 44 or 62.

I wouldn’t have allowed that person to go about the world for two decades having served less than half of his plea bargain and I sure as hell wouldn’t understand anyone enraged by his arrest after fleeing his punishment. In fact, I don’t know that I would be able to accept a plea bargain in the first place and the likelihood of me scouting for assassins would be high.

Sometimes, people just disgust me.