Where something once written has been deleted, rewritten and deleted again.
It sadly occurs to me at this late stage in the game that my greatest weapon and my greatest enemy have always been a white blank page.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Friday, October 12, 2012
Today
Sometimes I just need to write about what's going on right now. And right now I'm freaking out. Last night all the money was drained from the joint account I share with my husband. We know a legal order was obtained to drain the account but are waiting for the legal department at the bank to open so we can figure out who took the money and why because as far as we know, there are no outstanding debts in our names. Actually, I know it's in his name because my business account was untouched.
It's scary to hand your trust over to someone, to had over your credit and your entire life. We've been married for two and a half years and in that time his past has come to bite us in the ass more times than I can count. Sometimes I have to look deep inside myself and ask if it's worth it. But it is. It always is.
My husband is a good husband. He loves me so much. He holds me while I cry for my dead fiance. He doesn't get jealous. He holds me while I cry for the family that abondoned me. He does anything I ask. He puts forth so much effort. I know his past haunts him just as much as it does me. And I know he has the addition of the constant fear that I will leave him for the mistakes he's made. I don't have that because I know I love him, too. I know I'm not leaving.
I'm not leaving the man who took care of two kids on his own after his ex-wife disappeared not to be seen or heard from for five years. I'm not leaving the man who took on the responsibility of my daughter after her own father abandoned me during pregnancy. I'm not leaving the man who has seen me at my worst, my absolute lowest, screaming and crying, unshowered, unbathed, undone and who has still managed to kiss my dirty mouth and make me feel beautiful.
Money is scary sometimes. Paying bills and maintaining a home for three kids is stressful. But it's not what marriage is about. It's not what my marriage is about.
We'll get through this.
We'll laugh about it someday,
drunk on a beach,
rich as hell,
together.
I love you, honey.
It's scary to hand your trust over to someone, to had over your credit and your entire life. We've been married for two and a half years and in that time his past has come to bite us in the ass more times than I can count. Sometimes I have to look deep inside myself and ask if it's worth it. But it is. It always is.
My husband is a good husband. He loves me so much. He holds me while I cry for my dead fiance. He doesn't get jealous. He holds me while I cry for the family that abondoned me. He does anything I ask. He puts forth so much effort. I know his past haunts him just as much as it does me. And I know he has the addition of the constant fear that I will leave him for the mistakes he's made. I don't have that because I know I love him, too. I know I'm not leaving.
I'm not leaving the man who took care of two kids on his own after his ex-wife disappeared not to be seen or heard from for five years. I'm not leaving the man who took on the responsibility of my daughter after her own father abandoned me during pregnancy. I'm not leaving the man who has seen me at my worst, my absolute lowest, screaming and crying, unshowered, unbathed, undone and who has still managed to kiss my dirty mouth and make me feel beautiful.
Money is scary sometimes. Paying bills and maintaining a home for three kids is stressful. But it's not what marriage is about. It's not what my marriage is about.
We'll get through this.
We'll laugh about it someday,
drunk on a beach,
rich as hell,
together.
I love you, honey.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
John
In May, my grandfather had an aneurysm while driving down the street. A vein in his head exploded, causing him to crash his truck. He was conscious but critical. My mom called me with the news while I was walking to pick up my daughter from school. I, unable to focus after hearing what she'd said, almost got hit by a car. The driver honked and yelled at me. He might die. He is probably going to die. His brain exploded. He's dying. I informed the lady who almost hit me with her car that she was a rude ass bitch and picked up my daughter from school like nothing had happened.
I didn't cry. I didn't tell my mom that I was sad or sorry for her. I didn't tell her I was elated. None of those things would have been the truth for me. I felt numb. I felt scared. My heart pounded. I felt anxious. I felt nervous. It was almost over.
My life until this point had been much like waiting in line at Magic Mountain, I was terrified but certain that the payoff at the end was worth it. For 18 years, I'd waited in this line, patiently. I had stopped complaining years earlier. Stopped fighting, stopped arguing and stopped insisting. I, instead, waited for the payoff. Waited for this moment. Waited for his confession. I'd believed that no one would die with that weight on their chest. No one would inflict this amount of pain on someone for no reason. No one could be that selfish. Basically, I was fucking stupid.
After a few days of no news of change in his condition, I began to pray. I woke up every morning and went to bed every night crying to God, the Universe, the Source, the One Powerful Creator to please make him confess. Please make him confess what he did to me before he leaves. Please don't let him leave me like this. Please make him confess, God. Please make him.
I read my sisters updates on Facebook. They told about driving to Fresno together to visit him in the hospital and being able to kiss him goodbye, like this was fucking sister bonding time. I wanted to throw up. All alone, driven out, kept in secret, I cried in revulsion. I wondered why their loyalties would lye with him when no one in my family had ever been especially close to him. I wonder why they would choose now, the moment of his death, to love him. I assumed it was his money. I wanted to drive to Fresno, too and hold a gun to his fucking head and force the confession from his dying mouth. I wanted everyone to hear what the mouth they were kissing had done. And then I wanted to cut off his dick and shove it into his liar mouth, down into his liar throat.
But I didn't. I waited patiently for his confession. It was coming. God was fair. It had to come. I posted on Facebook to what I assumed was a closed support group about my situation and how betrayed I felt by my family. How I felt my family had betrayed me for his money. Friends offered their support but the anxiety never went away. I kept praying. It was coming, it had to come.
A week later I got a text from my sister. It read simply "Grampy died. Thought you might want to know."
And then the shit hit the fan.
I was driving to LA with my husband and kids at the time and asked my husband to pull over at the next stop so I could properly medicate myself behind a gas station. I shook all over. I felt sick to my stomach. He hadn't told. I pulled out my iPhone and at the bottom of the list of comments on the earlier post, I said simply "he just died." I waited for the outpouring of support as we drove to LA, and it came. However, along with it, one of my friends who was not part of the closed group texted me about the post.
Fuck.
That was my first thought when I read her text.
Fuck.
I realized the post had been copied to my wall since I commented on it. I'd spend 15 years working with computer and software and web design and I'd just made a huge technical mistake. I shook even harder and asked my husband to pull over a second time to re-medicate. A few minutes later I read a status update from my brother in law which made it very clear that he had read my post. And I knew if he had, my sister had. And if my sister had, my whole nosy, gossipy, judgmental family had read it as well. I spent the rest of the drive to LA blocking every family member on my profile, however I did not delete the post. I thought about it, but decided against it. Yes, my family had read it. Yes, they were offended. Yes, it made them sound like terrible people.
But it was true. And I was tired of hiding the truth to save their asses. That's what had gotten me into this whole mess to begin with.
I didn't cry. I didn't tell my mom that I was sad or sorry for her. I didn't tell her I was elated. None of those things would have been the truth for me. I felt numb. I felt scared. My heart pounded. I felt anxious. I felt nervous. It was almost over.
My life until this point had been much like waiting in line at Magic Mountain, I was terrified but certain that the payoff at the end was worth it. For 18 years, I'd waited in this line, patiently. I had stopped complaining years earlier. Stopped fighting, stopped arguing and stopped insisting. I, instead, waited for the payoff. Waited for this moment. Waited for his confession. I'd believed that no one would die with that weight on their chest. No one would inflict this amount of pain on someone for no reason. No one could be that selfish. Basically, I was fucking stupid.
After a few days of no news of change in his condition, I began to pray. I woke up every morning and went to bed every night crying to God, the Universe, the Source, the One Powerful Creator to please make him confess. Please make him confess what he did to me before he leaves. Please don't let him leave me like this. Please make him confess, God. Please make him.
I read my sisters updates on Facebook. They told about driving to Fresno together to visit him in the hospital and being able to kiss him goodbye, like this was fucking sister bonding time. I wanted to throw up. All alone, driven out, kept in secret, I cried in revulsion. I wondered why their loyalties would lye with him when no one in my family had ever been especially close to him. I wonder why they would choose now, the moment of his death, to love him. I assumed it was his money. I wanted to drive to Fresno, too and hold a gun to his fucking head and force the confession from his dying mouth. I wanted everyone to hear what the mouth they were kissing had done. And then I wanted to cut off his dick and shove it into his liar mouth, down into his liar throat.
But I didn't. I waited patiently for his confession. It was coming. God was fair. It had to come. I posted on Facebook to what I assumed was a closed support group about my situation and how betrayed I felt by my family. How I felt my family had betrayed me for his money. Friends offered their support but the anxiety never went away. I kept praying. It was coming, it had to come.
A week later I got a text from my sister. It read simply "Grampy died. Thought you might want to know."
And then the shit hit the fan.
I was driving to LA with my husband and kids at the time and asked my husband to pull over at the next stop so I could properly medicate myself behind a gas station. I shook all over. I felt sick to my stomach. He hadn't told. I pulled out my iPhone and at the bottom of the list of comments on the earlier post, I said simply "he just died." I waited for the outpouring of support as we drove to LA, and it came. However, along with it, one of my friends who was not part of the closed group texted me about the post.
Fuck.
That was my first thought when I read her text.
Fuck.
I realized the post had been copied to my wall since I commented on it. I'd spend 15 years working with computer and software and web design and I'd just made a huge technical mistake. I shook even harder and asked my husband to pull over a second time to re-medicate. A few minutes later I read a status update from my brother in law which made it very clear that he had read my post. And I knew if he had, my sister had. And if my sister had, my whole nosy, gossipy, judgmental family had read it as well. I spent the rest of the drive to LA blocking every family member on my profile, however I did not delete the post. I thought about it, but decided against it. Yes, my family had read it. Yes, they were offended. Yes, it made them sound like terrible people.
But it was true. And I was tired of hiding the truth to save their asses. That's what had gotten me into this whole mess to begin with.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Markus
I hardly remember anything about the summer of 1993. That was the summer I turned 15, but I couldn't tell you what my birthday party was like or who was there or what presents I got. I can't tell you what I spent the majority of the summer doing or who I was hanging out with. All I remember is one week, one beautiful, glorious, life changing week. If I could return to one week in my life, just one week to relive and not change a thing, it would be that week.
It was the first time I'd ever been to summer camp. Granted, I'd been in the girl scouts for six years in my youth but campouts had always consisted of one or two night trips to a nearby forest area accompanied by the troop leader, my mom. I'd also previously attended a winter camp that was a three night excursion to the same campground in February of the same year. But that camp consisted of just teens from Northern California while the summer camp drew teens from all over California and even as far as Canada. Winter camp had been just a brief sampling of what I was about to experience.
The camp was nestled in the mountains just 10-20 miles east of Pescadero (which is in between Santa Cruz and San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway) and was owned by the YMCA. Whether you drove to the camp from the east or the west, you spent at least thirty minutes a road so windy that it was guaranteed to make any one with car sickness lose their last meal. The roads, for those who could see past the turns, was gorgeous and peaceful, lined with tall redwood trees that loomed above the ground, softened by needles and decorated by pinecones. The vibration in the car increased the closer we came to the campground. The girls began squealing, me included. The squealing became screams as the sign came into view. Welcome to Camp Loma Mar.
Loma Mar. At 15 I didn't even know what the words meant. Loma Mar. I didn't even know what language they were. Loma Mar. It could have been alien for all I cared. Loma Mar. It was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard. Loma Mar. To me, it meant home.
It was the first time I'd ever been to summer camp. Granted, I'd been in the girl scouts for six years in my youth but campouts had always consisted of one or two night trips to a nearby forest area accompanied by the troop leader, my mom. I'd also previously attended a winter camp that was a three night excursion to the same campground in February of the same year. But that camp consisted of just teens from Northern California while the summer camp drew teens from all over California and even as far as Canada. Winter camp had been just a brief sampling of what I was about to experience.
The camp was nestled in the mountains just 10-20 miles east of Pescadero (which is in between Santa Cruz and San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway) and was owned by the YMCA. Whether you drove to the camp from the east or the west, you spent at least thirty minutes a road so windy that it was guaranteed to make any one with car sickness lose their last meal. The roads, for those who could see past the turns, was gorgeous and peaceful, lined with tall redwood trees that loomed above the ground, softened by needles and decorated by pinecones. The vibration in the car increased the closer we came to the campground. The girls began squealing, me included. The squealing became screams as the sign came into view. Welcome to Camp Loma Mar.
Loma Mar. At 15 I didn't even know what the words meant. Loma Mar. I didn't even know what language they were. Loma Mar. It could have been alien for all I cared. Loma Mar. It was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard. Loma Mar. To me, it meant home.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Sheena
I used to have a friend named Sheena, and she was a fucking bitch. I met Sheena my junior year after transferring from one local high school to the other. I walked into my new economics class wearing ripped jeans, my favorite flannel that was a patchwork of different flannels and knock off doc martins. I was seated next to a girl wearing a cream colored shirt with cream colored tapered leg jeans and a vest that looked like it was made out of my grandma's couch. My hair was long, blonde and straight while hers was permed and curly and doused in product. She immediately became my friend. She was nice to me and I was friends with anyone who was nice to me.
It turned out that Sheena lived just a couple blocks from me, but it was far enough that it crossed the dividing line between the two high schools which zigged zagged around the area I grew up in and which is why we hadn't met before now. Sheena would come over once a week or so to see if I wanted to go on a walk with her. Her mom was very strict and she was never allowed to hang out at her friend's houses, but was allowed to roam the neighborhood with me for thirty minutes every once in awhile. Or at least that's what Sheena told me.
I visited Sheena's house several times. Her mom smoked inside the house (gasp!) and looked hard core. Almost always dressed in all black with at least one item made of leather, she had bleach blonde hair sprayed higher than Sheena and leathery tanned skin that had been properly baked in a tanning salon. Her fake nails were long and neon and she wore black liquid eyeliner all the way around her eyes. She looked like what my mom would call a "biker chick" and she scared the hell out of me. It was clear that Sheena worshipped her mother.
Sheena's mom, Medusa, had a female roommate named Calico. Calico was a mechanic at a local body shop. Her hands were rough and always had grease stuck under the nails. She wore dirty jeans and t-shirts with no makeup and messy hair and almost always had bruises on her face and arms. Medusa was always telling stories about the fights they got in at bars which accounted for the bruising on Calico. Medusa always made herself sound like the hero in her stories, but that was clearly bullshit since Calico was always the one with the battle scars. However, Calico seemed shy, quiet and nice and it was hard to see her provoking a fight. Perhaps (I thought) Medusa started shit and Calico defended her. Who knows what kind of crazy shit went down in those biker bars.
It didn't take me long to figure out that Calico and Medusa were, in fact, a couple. Sheena's grandma also lived in the house. Sheena told me that her grandma and mother shared a room, however, her grandma was constantly in the room that supposedly belonged to Calico while Calico was constantly in the shared room with Medusa. I would later find out that Sheena was forced by guilt and shame to keep her mom's secret and when four years later she finally came out and told all her friends that her mom was indeed gay, we all laughed at her and said "I know." Sheena was shocked that we had all known and had still remained her friend.
Because Sheena would not have extended the same courtesy to any one of us.
Sheena was a bitch.
It turned out that Sheena lived just a couple blocks from me, but it was far enough that it crossed the dividing line between the two high schools which zigged zagged around the area I grew up in and which is why we hadn't met before now. Sheena would come over once a week or so to see if I wanted to go on a walk with her. Her mom was very strict and she was never allowed to hang out at her friend's houses, but was allowed to roam the neighborhood with me for thirty minutes every once in awhile. Or at least that's what Sheena told me.
I visited Sheena's house several times. Her mom smoked inside the house (gasp!) and looked hard core. Almost always dressed in all black with at least one item made of leather, she had bleach blonde hair sprayed higher than Sheena and leathery tanned skin that had been properly baked in a tanning salon. Her fake nails were long and neon and she wore black liquid eyeliner all the way around her eyes. She looked like what my mom would call a "biker chick" and she scared the hell out of me. It was clear that Sheena worshipped her mother.
Sheena's mom, Medusa, had a female roommate named Calico. Calico was a mechanic at a local body shop. Her hands were rough and always had grease stuck under the nails. She wore dirty jeans and t-shirts with no makeup and messy hair and almost always had bruises on her face and arms. Medusa was always telling stories about the fights they got in at bars which accounted for the bruising on Calico. Medusa always made herself sound like the hero in her stories, but that was clearly bullshit since Calico was always the one with the battle scars. However, Calico seemed shy, quiet and nice and it was hard to see her provoking a fight. Perhaps (I thought) Medusa started shit and Calico defended her. Who knows what kind of crazy shit went down in those biker bars.
It didn't take me long to figure out that Calico and Medusa were, in fact, a couple. Sheena's grandma also lived in the house. Sheena told me that her grandma and mother shared a room, however, her grandma was constantly in the room that supposedly belonged to Calico while Calico was constantly in the shared room with Medusa. I would later find out that Sheena was forced by guilt and shame to keep her mom's secret and when four years later she finally came out and told all her friends that her mom was indeed gay, we all laughed at her and said "I know." Sheena was shocked that we had all known and had still remained her friend.
Because Sheena would not have extended the same courtesy to any one of us.
Sheena was a bitch.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
The Purpose of This Blog
Every day I wake up and I can't stand the person that I am. After I pack my daughter's lunch, do her hair, feed her breakfast and send her off to school with my husband, I lay in bed, feeling sick, wondering how I got here. A memory from my past swims across my mind, torturing me for most of my morning. I lay and feel sick and smoke pot (yes, I have a prescription) and try to make it stop. Thirty minutes before I know my husband will be home, I drag myself out of bed and force myself to take a shower. Force myself to at least smell like a person for him. I rarely do my hair or my makeup. I rarely wear clothing that isn't stretchy and comfortable and when I do it's usually because I don't want to be bothered to do the laundry.
After I have lunch with my husband, I tend to lay around some more thinking about all the things I could have done with my life and all the things I could have changed or done differently. I try to think of ways to change who I've become, not even living, barely existing. Other than my husband, no one talks to me. Of the family I grew up with, only my father still has contact with me and that is just on a weekly basis when I am either dropping off my daughter for a visit or he is bringing her home. Many times, I just stay in my room and avoid seeing him, avoid having to pretend.
I've been depressed before. I know what it is to lay in bed day after day, crying, aching, dying inside. This isn't that. This is something more than that. It's like the depression has become a way of life. Like I have already given up, committed emotional suicide. That's what the pot is, emotional suicide. And I need it to stop. I need it to stop before the life I exist in isn't worth it to me anymore.
I want to be able to wake up in the morning, send my baby off to school and go for a run, come home, take a shower, clean the house, run the errands, pay the bills, pick up the kids, drive them to practice, go to their games, make dinner. I used to do those things, but sporadically and for the past six months, hardly at all. I've always wanted to be a stay at home mom and I finally have that chance, but it comes at a price. A worker's comp injury that won't heal completely and leaves me in pain for a week every time I do any physical activity two days in a row.
So what can I do? How can I alleviate the stress and the pain and the need to talk to someone, anyone about what is going on with me? I decided to start a blog. And hopefully every morning I will get up and just write out whatever awful memory is stuck in my head and then maybe after they've all been written down they'll also have been washed clean from my mind. Maybe then I can release and let go. Maybe then my life can move forward. Maybe then I can be free, be at peace.
Because right now it's devastating. It's lonely. I feel lonely. This is my outlet.
Thanks for listening,
Christine
After I have lunch with my husband, I tend to lay around some more thinking about all the things I could have done with my life and all the things I could have changed or done differently. I try to think of ways to change who I've become, not even living, barely existing. Other than my husband, no one talks to me. Of the family I grew up with, only my father still has contact with me and that is just on a weekly basis when I am either dropping off my daughter for a visit or he is bringing her home. Many times, I just stay in my room and avoid seeing him, avoid having to pretend.
I've been depressed before. I know what it is to lay in bed day after day, crying, aching, dying inside. This isn't that. This is something more than that. It's like the depression has become a way of life. Like I have already given up, committed emotional suicide. That's what the pot is, emotional suicide. And I need it to stop. I need it to stop before the life I exist in isn't worth it to me anymore.
I want to be able to wake up in the morning, send my baby off to school and go for a run, come home, take a shower, clean the house, run the errands, pay the bills, pick up the kids, drive them to practice, go to their games, make dinner. I used to do those things, but sporadically and for the past six months, hardly at all. I've always wanted to be a stay at home mom and I finally have that chance, but it comes at a price. A worker's comp injury that won't heal completely and leaves me in pain for a week every time I do any physical activity two days in a row.
So what can I do? How can I alleviate the stress and the pain and the need to talk to someone, anyone about what is going on with me? I decided to start a blog. And hopefully every morning I will get up and just write out whatever awful memory is stuck in my head and then maybe after they've all been written down they'll also have been washed clean from my mind. Maybe then I can release and let go. Maybe then my life can move forward. Maybe then I can be free, be at peace.
Because right now it's devastating. It's lonely. I feel lonely. This is my outlet.
Thanks for listening,
Christine
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