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From On Getting Inked…

The first time I planned to kill myself, I was around eight years old. A teacher at my elementary school found my suicide notes. Yes, I had multiple notes to friends, my grandparents, everyone but my father, it seems. He was informed shortly after I had a severe conversation with the school counselor (the third one I’d seen in two years, fyi) about the seriousness of scaring people like that.

Not about the seriousness of actually killing myself, keep in mind. It was about how it would scare people to read my notes, should I forget my knock-off-dollar-store trapper keeper with them in it in the computer lab

From Where I Become That Single Parent…

I’ve always said I never want to shittalk JDawg to Isobel. And I don’t. Her visits with him, it’s all about “have fun with Daddy!”

I will occassionally let out some stuff about the situation or choices he is or has made while she is in the near vacinity and I figure I can get away with that for a little bit longer - not much, but a bit - until she puts together that his name=him. And once she does get it, I will no longer do any talking about him outside of the perfuntorily announced visit times or the positive. Where she can hear it.

From Pride, Beauty and Covering Your Ass…

I was seething when I read the words that were forwarded to me. I was awestruck and indignant and well, really fucking embarassed. I talked to three different people about it. One, who reiterated that I’m a beautiful person, trying to do what is right for myself and Isobel - and that he can try anything he wants, but will end up not ‘winning.’

From What I See…

From On Falling in Love and Blogging…

And it’s amazing. It’s breathtaking. It’s really awesomely surreal. And it’s totally fucking with my blog writing.

Someone whose opinion I respect - in part due to her ability to let it out without prior self-consciousness - suggested that not everything I write need be moody and laced with normally taboo subjecture. That if I consistently did that, regardless of talent, word count or pentameter, people might come to read to rubber neck. I might become a tragedy on the side of the road - something people can not look away from, mourn for but a moment and then move on, not taking anything much away.

I turned this thought over and over. I doubted my ability to put words on screen that didn’t speak of abuse, lost babies, drugs and depression. Anger, hatred, self denial - these have been my companions for so long, how could I give up writing what I know, just because I was breaking up with them?

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