Entries Tagged 'nonfact' ↓

This past week would win an award, if there were such a thing, for being almost the exact opposite of what I wanted.

You won’t write here, anymore

It started off with a casual conversation on gmail chat a little while back, when I said that I should start looking for more writing work, since I had kind of all of my eggs in one basket (pardon the cliche). That knowing that fucker, Murphy, I’d end up agreeing to a much lower amount of support in the summer – I get lots now, on the basis that when we renegotiate, it’s literally thirded – and then a month later, I’d hear that two of the sites I write for are getting axed. Then I got the email. Totally called that one. They were just early.

Sure there’s a positive: the client has another site that another one of the writers and I will share. But that’s less posts. Then a few days later, another site became magically available. So, for this one client, instead of 24 posts a month, I’ll be doing 16. Kind of a kick in the wallet. But we’ll move on, right? We always do.

Smart thinking can get the life choked out of you

On Good Friday, a friend’s husband offered to take all of our combined kids around so that the moms could sit in the cafeteria of a gigantic orb of awesome. If you lived here, you’d know where I was talking about; if you had my anxiety about crowds, you’d know that was the only way I was going there. Seems messages got mixed because that’s not in fact what the husband offered to do, but it all worked out okay, especially when friends pooled sympathetic and shocked faces and convinced a peer to end her relationship, which was fucked.

So, a sleepover was had here because said relationship unfortunately would end with the man not leaving the apartment. Which was great, even though my one bedroom apartment is only 400 square feet, even though Isobel would not go to sleep until a few hours after her bed time, and though the kids don’t especially get along too well. Seemed like things were going to work out fine.

Until the fucking asshole tried to choke her to death. My friend. One of my best friends. While her daughter slept in the other room. He put his hands on her in a violent way so that she lost consciousness, he revived her and then spent the next few hours following her around the apartment until she figured out that the only way he might not lose it again was if she plied him with affection and conspiracy – making him feel loved, as if it was their secret and this was the sign they needed for a new beginning.

The thought of that, regardless of whether she needed to do it, for herself and her daughter’s safety or not, makes me fucking sick. The phrase ‘threw up in my mouth’ actually occurred when she first told me what happened.

He’s in jail, at least for now. The first night after it happened, they slept over here again. It would be scary to be there, at her apartment – I get that – and there was a risk of her going to sleep and stopping breathing. The fucking asshole had done such a good job choking her that there was a risk she could still asphyxiate.

Almost the minute his hands tightened, she passed out; instead of checking her pulse, he administered CPR. Poor baby has a bruised everything from the chest compressions he did, in addition to the necklace that is only hideable under high-cut shirts and scarves.

Because this is not the first time he’s been violent towards a partner (but was the first time toward her), nor is it the first she’s broken up with him, I basically tried to be there, but made it clear that if she goes back to him, I can’t have her a part of my life anymore.

The worrying, the waiting for it to happen again, the nausea I’d feel every time she shared something positive about him – I can’t do any of that. If I could, I’d erase his presence from the world altogether, but especially hers. I can’t stand the thought of losing her. But you know? I can’t stand the thought of losing her.

Then I got interviewed

And that was actually damn cool, even if I was nervous as hell beforehand. But nope, felt fine, it was like talking to anyone and cuz I’m me, I didn’t prepare sentences carefully ahead of time. I babbled and went off on all kinds of tangents. You know how I am. Then she asked if I was okay with them sending a photographer, maybe.

Fuck me.

I wasn’t playing peek-a-boo

If’ you’ve read like, five posts here, it’s been made semi-obvious that I am not a fan of the compliments. Most of that is due to my extremely low self esteem. I was told for 24 years and also told myself for most of my life that I wasn’t good enough for people to love, want to be with, look at, spend money or time or energy on. I was a waste of skin and water, bone and cartilage. I’m not as severe with myself and my father’s dead, so it’s not like that anymore, but you don’t wake up one day and go -poof!- I’m hot, smart and worth knowing.

Tell me you think I’m a good writer once in a while, in one sentence, and I can manage Thank You, but it’s an exercise to not scoff and wonder where you picked up the ‘ludes.

Tell me I’m pretty, and I’ll wonder why you think it’s that hard to get into my pants, and know that you’re wrong and there’s maybe an agenda behind you saying so. Or in the least, that you’ve got some damn low standards. Or you feel obligated to.

I can think of excuses all day as to why you’re wrong and why you said _____________ – the point is, I do not agree.

I also, despite the overwhelming narcissism here and on Twitter, don’t like being in the spotlight. If you call attention to me in a way that I was unprepared for, or in a manner more grandiose than I can handle? It virtually kills me.

So when I’m asking for someone to please stop. When I use the words “I’m really uncomfortable” because I’m being polite. When I am looking all over the place and down at the floor and then covering my flaming red cheeks and then my eyes and saying, “Can we please talk about something else?” I’m done.

There’s a problem with having shitty self esteem that a lot of people don’t realize – when people try to bolster you by complimenting you (even if it does temporarily work, sometimes) there’s a fucking rebound effect. You feel lower than you did before, afterwards. At least I did.

Which brings me to the photographer

Of course!

Today, I spent the whole morning feeling like shit about myself, the world, my ex (oh, I forgot to mention that he called me to ‘hang out’ tonight. The audacity.), Isobel’s over-tiredness, the world, my world, the weather, my bank account, the world. Did I mention that today, I hated the world a little bit? Then I checked my email.

The photographer from the paper that the reporter called from wanted me to meet her. Today. The World Hating Day, in case you forgot.

Today, the day that pms bloat has made my waist and (weirdly enough, only one) ankle retain water. Today, the day I was wearing last night’s makeup plus extra concealer and still not hiding the puffy, dark circles (Isobel’s matched mine, see next point for why). The day that my hair is ultra-fucking-manic looking. What I can only imagine twinned Donald Sutherland’s. The day that my boobs are absofuckinglutely not willing to fit in a bra unless I’m going for some kind of an S & M thing (yes, premenstrual cup increase sucks when you’re too vain to buy something in a size with two letters on it).

To make it clear: Today. Awesome.

The photog was fabulous and nice and chatted with me about everything everyday kind of stuff, and got about a bazillion shots of Isobel using me as a chair while we both looking in rapture at my laptop. She was a sweet heart, really, and made me feel totally at ease.

But I still know I’ll look like shit. In a fucking newspaper. Which I’d actually like to feel good about, but now can’t.

Also meriting an award…

My babysitter gave Isobel KFC. Breaded chicken and fries cooked in the same oil. Wheat and more wheat. Which, just like dairy does, makes her tummy sick and her eyes look like she met a man named Brutus in a pub fight. While she was eating that, I was eating creamy soup and flourless chocolate torte. Wheat, dairy and dairy. Let’s just say that night-time wakings was an understatement as her poor allergic tummy was being hit repeatedly – I don’t know why she does that, but when it hurts, she hits it. Hard. And today, she has a mild rash on her torso and thighs. I’ve failed to mention my major problem with it: it was fucking KFC, one of the places we boycott (by we, I mean me) because of their animal treatment practices in spite of being repeatedly fined and reported about.

I didn’t get to go to the gym all this week because of the drama. There’s been nothing since Saturday, I think it was. Tomorrow, if I don’t feel like a complete douche (or maybe even if I do – it should help, right?) I’m back in it. Because I feel like a lazy, fat asshole.

I hate that those thoughts have been creeping in again, which they almost always surely do when I’ve relaxed my food portion control and am feeling puffier than usual. I hate that today, I thought that I should lose a few pounds. I hate the way that my brain works. Today.

The initial speakers’ schedule was posted for that conference I mentioned the other day. I’ve been given an 80 minute time spot. Seriously? No one wants to hear me talk for anything close to that long! Especially if I run out of things to talk about, except myself. Please lend a hand, it will help the oh-mah-fucking-gahd-I’m-freakin’-out syndrome that hides-in-the-corner me is suffering from. You can even pitch me someone else’s name/blog/twitter. Thanks to everyone whose helped out already!

With those final words, I say Fuck You to the past week. I’m so glad you’re over.

If I were to be completely glib, we’d be playing the I Never game right now and I’d totally be drunk. Instead, let’s go systematically. Oh and men? You probably don’t want to read this one. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

Myth #1: I am such an artiste that though you cannot see a trace of makeup on me, my skin looks flawlessly even right now and has all day. Or it just is flawlessly even-toned and I don’t require makeup.
Fact: I’m so fucking pale at the moment, I’m as white as a sheet. Why? Because some fucker decided that since the miscarriage last spring, my period would get worse and sooner every single month – meaning I now have a 18 day cycle that requires me to take iron supplements or I might pass out if there’s some chance that I can even move from the pain-crumbled position the first two days of it are made of.

Myth #2: The nuance in my lower stomach is just the gentle contractions that a lot of women feel during menses, and are completely painless – more so a reminder of the wonder of the female form and all of its splendid ability.
Fact: There is a stabbing in my lower stomach on the left side that I’m pretty sure is my ovary exploding or cancer. Maybe it’s cancer. That would be okay because then I could definitely go for a hysterectomy, which would nullify myth #1.

Myth #3: I did not sleep with my ex boyfriend.
Fact: My back hurts. And I need a sofa. And hard wood floors are not good for coupling at the pace of 17 year olds who might get walked in on by a parent at any moment.

Myth #4: My body, as a result of my newly reformatted eating style, is completely balanced and feeling wonderful.
Fact: There is an open box of Monistat in my presence and I don’t think it’s going to do the job. Also, every day between the hours of 2 and 8 pm, it’s a struggle to stay awake if I’m not constantly moving.

Myth #5: I’m positive that Isobel’s teeth are not the purest white that toddler teeth should be as a result of her wheat allergy.
Fact: I’m terrified that it’s because of our lackadaisical dental habits for the first 32 months of her life. She’s 32 months and 5 days old, as of today.

Myth #6: Eating a wheat and dairy-free diet has meant that Isobel is eating whole, low-sugar, healthy foods every day.
Fact: The prepared snack foods that she eats frequently? Super high in sugar. The kid’s probably getting more damn sugar than all of your kids put together, between the Enjoy Life Coco-motion bars, EnviroKids Koala Crisps, Taste of Nature Exotics organic fruit and nut bars, Silk soy milk and fruit.

Myth #7: I’m confident that because of her diet, appetite, personality and activity level, Isobel will grow up healthy, strong and completely enamouring.
Fact: I’m terrified that she’ll grow into me. At seven years old she’ll be mentally unstable, unliked by all of her peers and chubby.

Myth #8: I’ve used the time offline productively and I feel good about all that I’ve gotten accomplished.
Fact: I’m still slacking on the work. I’m still behind. I’ve still got a tiny disorganized apartment, with boxes that should have gone down to the storage locker three months ago and a toilet that is growing something that might be useful toward this raging yeast infection. But I do have labels on my spice jars, now.

Myth #9: I’m making smart, educated decisions about our future, where we live and how.
Fact: I’m trying. But not doing it so well. Money is always tight, except for when it isn’t, which is when I overdo it, making it even tighter than usual. I need new shoes and have for months, need to go to the dentist, need a bigger space and furniture. But I haven’t done any of those things because I can’t afford to – because when I can afford to? I blow all of our money.

Myth #10: I am a baking master.
Fact: I stick to the easy recipes because I can’t stand having the chance to fail.

Myth #11: I am at peace with my decisions.
Fact: I think I’ve done little right in the past three years, part of which includes deciding to stay pregnant. I was so not ready to be a mom and every day, I see more of how I can’t handle shit and how my morals about certain things – like even TV watching – have gone out the window as a means to settle for less so I’m not constantly tortured by my shortcomings.

Myth #12: I miss my father. I wish he’d gotten to know and love Isobel.
Fact: I’m glad he’s dead. I hope there is a hell and he’s fucking roasting. I think the way he died, the fear he had at the end, the pain he went through, is all karma and I’m not sorry about it for him. I’m so glad that I never have to keep her from him, as a means to keep her head as screwed on as it can be. I’m terrified of how much like him I am and how that will affect Isobel’s self-esteem growing up. I can’t move on and this weekend, I plan to throw out almost everything of his that I own, except his ashes. Which will be packed into my storage locker, next to the vacuum.