Category Archives: Heartache

I would not give my mom a kidney.

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mom and daughter

It’s true.

I wouldn’t.

I would not endure any more discomfort in my life than she already causes, so she could cause it longer.

I would not take any more physical pain than I experienced growing up with her.

You don’t get it, unless you wouldn’t give your own mom a kidney.

“She’s your mother.”

“She brought you into the world.”

That’s what they say in outrage.

These people didn’t beat the dog when they were eight years old so they could cuddle her afterward like their own moms did them.

They didn’t spend their teen years medicated, because it made them easier to handle.

They don’t regularly comfort their Gramma, the woman who did make them feel loved growing up, because their mom tells her she stole her children.

They never got the “What happened to the daughter I loved?” text, because they couldn’t go to lunch.

They were never beaten for refusing to see a therapist for “behavioral problems.”

They don’t suck their thumbs as adults, because it was the only thing that made the rages stop.

They didn’t lose years with their father, convinced he’d molested them, because she was angry.

They can suck my dick.

Because I still wouldn’t give my mom a kidney…

… until I did, because she’s my mom and she brought me into the world.

When she dies, I’ll cry because I spent my life hating her…

and the woman who made birthday pancakes with candles in them disappeared when I was eight…

and I don’t know why…

but I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t give your mom a kidney.

Well… if the crown fits?

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crying princess

I think I’ve been crowned Queen Divorcee of the graduating class of 2006.

We tend to confuse the graduation ceremony with a mass wedding ceremony around these parts.

Seven years later, we’re all weeping on each other’s shoulders.

I’m not sure why so many have reached out to me for guidance or advice. I didn’t exactly handle my own divorce with poise. I was too busy ignoring the problem, drinking, crying, and waking up in my own vomit before quickly showering and running off to my two jobs and school. I didn’t sleep or eat well for weeks. I just stayed up tossing out most of his belongings. Thanksgiving night involved 8 LIT’s, Gail’s and another friend’s drinks, a $75 bar tab… and a lot of throwing up. On Christmas Eve, I got horribly drunk and threw out every dish I owned, because I felt like I wouldn’t have been drinking out of old pickle jars if he’d just gotten a fucking job. Seriously. Every single dish. I nearly broke my foot throwing away a couch at 4:00 a.m. from an upstairs apartment to the dumpster across the complex… alone. By the new year, my living room furniture consisted of a dining room table, an old office chair, and several empty bottles of Everclear.  My guys, the kings of “penises cancel out all emotion” actually sat me down to tell me I was worrying them. It was bad. So why come to me?

My life’s improved exponentially and that’s obvious on Facebook. That’s my best guess.

I’m not good at giving advice. I’m too honest, so it looks like this:

“The first time you put up the Christmas tree alone is going to break your heart. But then you’ll realize that you know how to put up the Christmas tree alone and that’s something.”

Cheery.

That’s sort of a load of crap, considering the fact that my dear friend Chad had to come over and help me put up my pretty pink Christmas tree with my pretty pink hammer. That wasn’t really my point, however.

I don’t mind it, though. I know how badly it tears someone apart. I know how awful it is to feel like no one gets it and know that you’re just so many people’s story of the day. The “So… what happened?” question comes from everyone, even people you don’t even fucking know. Sometimes they have the nerve to put it on your Facebook wall… twice. You mention the word divorce and immediately want to explain every detail so they’ll know it wasn’t you… but then you’re the crazy lady ranting about her divorce… to the mechanic. Telling your family… via Facebook, by accident… or a voicemail… or by knocking on your dad’s door and blurting “I’mgettingadivorceI’msorryIruinedChristmas” twice and then bursting into tears…

There’s nothing easy about it. I’m happy to support anyone hurting through it.

My only problem…

I won’t tell anyone to stay. I actually posted on Facebook yesterday:

“I am the person who will support you through your divorce. I am not the person who will tell you to stay. I’m closer to a cynic than a romantic. Know that before asking for my input.”

Four people liked it… one immediately messaged to tell me about her possible separation and ask about the cost of my apartment complex.

I used to say I didn’t believe in divorce. Now I know that anyone who says that has never hoped that he’d eventually follow-through with all of those suicide threats so you could finally be left alone to wash the blood off the dog. The dog can get through bathtime without my singing now. I still can’t sleep without my purse within reach.

“Nothing gets rid of that victim feeling quite like shooting a gun.”

That’s the advice I give. It may not be poetic, but it’s fucking true. I own four now… and a range membership. He’ll never hurt me again. That’s what I tell myself in the dark.

So when that girl from high school tells me it’s gotten to the point where she’s considering leaving, my advice is always to run… fast and far. I don’t even get the details. I suppose it’s because there was so much I kept to myself in my marriage, that I assume she’s doing the same. Yes. That’s definitely why. Is it so bad that you’re reaching out to that one girl from high school? It’s bad. Leave.

I wonder if I’ll ever let anyone close again. If I do and he tells me I made the fried chicken wrong, will I tell him I just can’t do it anymore? A part of me wonders, am I telling women to leave their husbands over a fried chicken insult? No. I don’t really think so. They wouldn’t be asking if it were nothing. It’s always something. There are always secret horrors once you’ve gotten to that point. Everyon’e marriage is their own and I’ve no idea what’s pushed them to consult me.

I guess I’ll take that crown.

I have this stuffed bear…

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Me: “Okay.. so you’re poised over your ex-husband’s sleeping form…”
Gail: Interrupts with choking laughter

We have this thing, where we can’t deal with adult emotions on the things that hurt too much, so we giggle instead. It’s really pretty awful if anyone overhears a good rape joke… in a Target… with their seven-year-old… at 9:45 on a weeknight? Sir, I really think you should be more concerned about your child’s sleep schedule than my quiet discussion with my best friend about her vaginal trauma (he hadn’t actually heard the joking portion).  Fortunately the above was just a phone conversation.

Gail’s answer was that she’d do nothing.

Mine was that I’d be so threatened by his presence that I could kill him.

I think hers was healthier.

Me: “Every time I see this kind of thing on the news, I worry I’m going to see my ex-husband’s picture. How fucked up is that and how broken am I?”
Gail: “Yeah, I could see him doing something like that.”

I have this stuffed bear. It’s in a box in my storage closet.  I kept it out of spite after all of the things he stole from me, literally and figuratively. It’s covered in soot from a fire I can’t bring myself to discuss. I’m not sure why I keep it. I’m too afraid to contact him to send it back. It feels hateful to throw it out. So it’s just there… in a Wal-Mart sack to keep the soot off of things.

I haven’t woken up with my wallet and keys in my pillowcase since I moved to this apartment. I don’t lock the bedroom door and can usually get through the night without getting up to check the patio and front door locks more than once. I rarely sleep with my gun anymore.

I still can’t sleep without my purse and wallet next to me.

I still have nightmares.

They’re not usually violent. Sometimes he’s texting… counting down the minutes until he breaks down the door. Usually, I’m just still with him. I never did it. I never left. My life never turned upside down to right itself in a completely different universe. I’m still fat and alone and hateful. I lie in bed and can’t breathe. Sometimes I wake up crying. I cuddle the dog and promise him I’ll never let anyone hurt him again. I kiss his paws, even though they’re dirty dog feet, because I’m so happy they aren’t caked with blood. I think the dog has nightmares, too. He’s yipping in his sleep right now.

jude in chair

Maybe I’ll set the bear on fire.

Why am I writing this instead of my final? I suppose I get a nice divorce rant every now and then.

Your ONLY marriage? Why didn’t I think of that?

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marriage 2

Everyone I graduated high school with is doing one of two things according to Facebook: getting divorced or getting married.

The ones getting divorced aren’t talking about it. They’re changing their last names and you’re to draw your own conclusions. Either that or they’ve accidentally posted “… is no longer listed as married” long before telling their family that he’s moved out and the paperwork has been filed. Oops. Color me sheepish.

Then there’s my amalgum of a Facebook Friend who is getting married and more and more frequently posting the above photo and its ilk. Yeah. I said ilk. Fucking deal with it, Gail.

I’m not a wedding person, Facebook Friend. I never have been. I didn’t care about my wedding, so I really don’t give a crap about other people’s weddings. They’re extravagant and no one knows anyone else there and I have to shave my legs and buy a gift. If you’re old enough and financially stable enough to get married, why the hell am I buying you a toaster? My wedding advice for stressed out crying brides:

“Just remember. No matter what happens… it’s just a stupid wedding.”

However, Facebook friend, my qualm is not with weddings. You want to spend thousands of dollars on a party and months talking about it on social networking sites? Fine. It’s your thousands and I can hide you from my newsfeed. I may not like weddings…

… but I hate the above photo.

Show me one blushing bride who didn’t think it was going to last forever. I dare you.

We all want our first marriage to be our only marriage. None of us walk down that aisle to Pearl Jam’s Better Man. We all have a picture of the future with the person standing next to us and every single one of those visions is happy.

You know what, though? It takes two people to make a marriage… and sometimes one of those people is batshit fucking crazy.

Sometimes you come home to a suspicious house fire and all of your pets dead on the lawn.

Sometimes your husband tells you he’s sexually attracted to little girls.

Sometimes he shakes your baby.

Sometimes he hits you.

Sometimes you wake up with a pillow over your face.

Sometimes he rapes you.

Sometimes he steals from you and your family.

Sometimes he develops a drug problem.

Sometimes he abuses your pets.

Sometimes he won’t work.

Sometimes he cheats…

… and there’s nothing you can do about it, because you can’t control another person. Every one of those references is from me or someone I graduated with that’s confided in me. We didn’t get divorced because we didn’t want it badly enough. We didn’t get divorced because we didn’t try. I was willing to stay with a man I didn’t believe had a soul, because I made a committment until the boys who will forever own a piece of my heart helped me realize how bad it had gotten. When I filed for divorce, I fucking broke.

So, my dear Facebook Friend, it’s nice that you’ve never been hurt that much. I hope you never are… because it will tear you apart in ways that will never heal. I wouldn’t wish my marriage on anyone. I’m glad you’re looking forward to the future and I am truly thrilled you’re happy. Perhaps, you could manage such happiness without shitting on the rest of us, though? Because, to suggest that you’re a regular trailblazer for wanting your first marriage to be your only marriage (and that’s what this photo is doing or it wouldn’t be significant) implies that a lack of determination or respect for the union ended all of those other marriages. In which case, fuck you.

It takes two people to make a marriage… and until you’re one of them, you don’t know what heartaches haven’t been posted on Facebook.

Come to think of it… yeah. You’re right, Facebook friend. Maybe I do want my first marriage to be my only marriage.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver’s Test

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When I failed the driver’s test at 16, I cried for hours.I couldn’t even talk about it for months afterward. Two months ago, I wept because I made a 98.5% on an assignment. I felt it deserved a 100%. I was heartbroken. I was also a complete pain in the ass to anyone who would listen to my “woe is me, I”m 1.5% less than perfect” rant. So… take that and imagine my reaction when I “did not pass” my End of Program Assessment for graduate school yesterday. “Fail” is too negative a term for graduate students, which I swear have some of the most delicate selves-esteem in regards to their intelligence. Ironic huh? Following is a dramatic retelling of yesterday’s ordeal.

The committee sat with bated-breath, awaiting a presentation on the depth of my learning experience during my last two years in graduate school.

I entered and promptly presented to them… an orange.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver's Test
… but it was an awesome damned orange.

That’s pretty much exactly what happened. I had the complete wrong idea of what was expected of me. My original advisor was a woman constantly being encouraged to retire. She rarely responded to e-mails and gave me a pat on the back and a thumbs up each time I presented her with what I’d accomplished for my portfolio. Then she retired without telling me and I had to acquire a new advisor the summer before presenting. My new advisor is kind and gentle… too gentle. She didn’t tell me that what I had sucked… and was a fruit. So, as I started speaking and saw the committee member’s faces, I knew I had it wrong. I was presenting an overview of what I thought would make me a good librarian, not an in-depth presentation of my learning experiences in relation to YALSA approved standards and objectives. I’m talking about how working circulation has helped me to put a smile on my face when this guy’s acting like a dick, and they’re wanting to hear about the Public Relations tactics I’ve learned in my Public Relations course. I knew I was screwed and just became more and more flustered to the point that, when asked what the purpose of a Reference Collection was, I actually said “I don’t know.” No. Fucking. Joke.

As I stood waiting while they convened, I began to think up other possible careers. I texted Gail and told her it was all over. She told me to relax, I probably did fine. I didn’t respond, knowing very well this was bad. I was going to have to change the name of my blog. “I don’t know.” What the fuck? I do, too, know! A Reference Collection houses Almanacs and Encyclopedias. I just didn’t know I would be asked that or that I’d show up to the singing competition with my prized dancing mule.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver's Test
Mildred. You expected a boy, didn’t you?

I sat down as they opened the door, shocked that I was intuitive enough to recognize the body language and energy of someone who was about to announce that I had cancer and had taken a shit all over the presentation podium.

“We’re disappointed.”

My first thought was “But can you pass me anyway?”

I pretty much just heard a roar of white noise in my ears after that. I remember blaming my advisor situation and then trying to simultaneously say that I wasn’t trying to blame my advisor situation and telling them that I just didn’t understand the portfolio requirements. I truly didn’t. I’m not going to lie. There a lot of readings I didn’t do. There were times when I zoned out during lectures or participated minimally during discussions and that is why I couldn’t talk about these things at the drop of a term. Call it a curse of online learning, but you don’t actually have to know what anyone is talking about when you can just Google the term to remind yourself before responding. However, had I understood the requirements of the portfolio, I’d have brushed up. I’d have known the term and realized that when I was asked how my searching techniques now differ from when I began the program, they weren’t talking about my ability to use the word “and” in the search box. They wanted to know what I’d learned in my Knowledge Management course.

At this point, I’m pretty much just proud that I didn’t beg them to pass me or burst into tears about how “I do, too, know what a Reference Collection is! I promise! IT’S BOOKS! IT’S ALL BOOKS!” and then run out of the room crying. I kept my big girl panties on and I asked questions while three people told me how much I sucked. I made arrangements with my advisor for the 2 hour Directed Reading course that will help me focus on my revision and re-presentation of my portfolio in March. I walked to my car and called my Gramma and assured her that I was not joking, I had actually failed. I called my dad and told him that I was the slow child and I was sorry I’d disappointed him. He told me I was being ridiculous. I went out with Gail and I wallowed and made jokes about how they kicked me out of college and made me ride the short bus home. I talked about how if I fail again and I don’t get my masters degree, I’m going to have to build a rich life in the World of Warcraft, because my life here is over. She laughed and told me that at least I’m still funny. I went home and I cried. I canceled work for today (substitute teaching, which can actually be canceled the night before and no one cares) and slept restlessly. My prayers last night were along these lines.

“Thank you Lord for all you’ve given me and please help me to move forward. [tearfully] Please, please let me pass next time and give me the motivation to work for it. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for my sins. Thank you. Amen.”

In the night, my pain eased. As I tossed and turned, I’d wake up with a little less heartache, the pit in my stomach a little softer. I woke at 7:00 and knew that I could still accept a sub job, but decided I’d rather pout. Thirty minutes later, I got out of bed and grabbed my textbook for my current class. I began to read from page one, highlighting for notes. I ordered the textbook from the last class I breezed through as well. I messaged my advisor telling her the times we could meet and that I was rereading my old texts. I went grocery shopping and bought note cards and pretty pens for color-coding because I’m insane. I called my manager and secured every Wednesday off for the next semester. I explained I had two more hours I had to take, knowing full well that she’s a librarian and knew I had my presentation yesterday and failed. I put the embarrassment aside, because that is one of the worst parts. I hide behind a different persona at work to a psychologically unhealthy extent anyway (another entry for another time). Why should this be any different? I went to lunch with my dad and he reassured me I’ll pass.

I love my dad, but he doesn’t know me all that well. Gail is the person who knows me best in the world and she didn’t know if she should leave me alone last night, because she thought I might hurt myself. I’m not saying it was rational, but yes, that was a valid fear. My dad, however, felt he should begin sentences with “… and if you don’t pass…”

NO! Shut the fuck up! I WILL pass. That’s the only thing I want to hear. I’m not saying I’ll pass by fate or magic. I’ll pass because I spent the whole day reading and ordering textbooks. I’ll pass because I have six months to learn the theories of information services inside out. I’ll pass because I WILL read a minimum of two hours a day on information theories and articles about current trends in the library world. I may still be the worst driver on the planet, but I will learn this stuff to the point that I have no fucking social life beyond this blog and text messages to Gail if that is what it takes. I will not get used to failure and develop better coping mechanisms than eating an entire Old Chicago, because I won’t fail.

And in the meantime, I will slip behind my work persona, Winifred, and tell everyone I have one more class to take, consoling myself with the fact that it is not a lie. They just assume… and eventually write the blog entitled “Winifred.”