My 17 year old cousin Jessica is far more mature than Mad Cow and myself put together.
Comments off - you can go comment Jess since I’m taking a day off from being an attention whore.? Thanks.? 
Well someone decided to inform me of your latest post. I cannot believe you would write such hateful things about someone you obviously don’t know and did not take the time to read the last few posts where I’m trying to figure shit out. I have never once claimed to have all the answers, and the amount of feedback I’m getting in terms of helpful, solid ideas to take to my doctor is making this vomit on my blog all worth it. It’s my fucking blog, and I will write whatever the hell I want. I have always been honest here, and I’m not about to stop now.
This post is likely futile, because you can’t seem to see past your own toxicity, and I’m sure you will take your usual immature route and tear it apart. I really don’t give a fuck. Have at it. But grow some fucking balls and just link to what you’re referring to. As much as you hate closed comments, I hate people who are cryptic, spineless little bitches, who blog about shit that is bugging them on the internet (OH MY GOD DID I JUST WRITE THAT?) and don’t link to it. Trying to frustrate your readers? Well carry on doing what you’re doing.
FYI, I have auto-close on my comments after 4 days due to spam issues. The entires I closed comments on were because I didn’t want to hear the “hugs” and all that - sometimes it gets to be a bit too much. I’m POSITIVE I’m not the only person to ever feel that way because I’ve talked to other people about it quite a bit. Not that it should matter. Many blogs don’t have comments at all, and not everyone subscribes to the way you blog. So really, who gives a shit?
Your mis-informed post also alludes to the fact that I need to seek help. If you actually read any of what I wrote, you’d see I was doing just that. I have the appointment set for next Wednesday at 12:15. Would you like to come with me and hold my hand too, tell me what to say perhaps?
I’ve admitted several times that I need help. But you ought to take a long look in the mirror, sweetheart. Your constant bitching and whining about people on the internet is so old and overdone, I’m surprised anyone still reads your shit. I love how you yourself have your throngs of lemmings who jump on every bandwagon you fire up (which by God, don’t you people get sick of this?), but my readers are the ones who are being led like sheep. Riiight.
One would think that maybe, if one hasn’t been able to keep regular food down for say, two weeks, that perhaps it would not be wise to order anything off of the McDonald’s menu despite hunger pains.? My stomach is retching.? I hate McDonalds on the best of days, so in the words of Dr. Phil: WHAT WERE YOU THINKIN’???
Also?? March Break is kicking my ass, people, with the kids and the kids and the kids.? Bah.
But you!? You all are amazing - your emails and stories and encouragement and love and support…thank you.? From the bottom of my heart.
It’s warm now.? The kids and I are heading outside.? Them, to play, me, to take a shovel and break up ice.? I’m hoping I can take my frustration out on the walkway and driveway.
Something about wielding a heavy shovel and whacking the shit out of ice is gonna feel gooood.
I spent last night talking with Erin, a.k.a. Queen of Spain. Do you have any idea how amazing it is to have someone in your life that you can say absolutely anything to, and she won’t laugh at you, judge you or call you a complete nutjob? It’s nice. Thank you so much Erin.
Even with Daren, I hold back a lot of what I’m feeling because that’s how I roll. I’m afraid that if I puke up all the bad, he will run for the hills, screaming and flailing his arms in desperation. Let’s face it, he’s normal. He was raised by normal parents, in a normal home, with normal normal normal being spoon-fed to him and normal normal normal seeping from every pore. We’ve been married nine years this July, and I still feel as though I’m not good enough for him in all his royal normalcy.
I know this is my own problem. I know that I cannot change who brought me into this world, or how I was raised. I know that I have overcome many odds and been blessed with a wonderful family and complete set of normal in-laws who love me and accept me in all my dysfunction.
A friend recently emailed me, saying it’s as though I’ve flipped a switch and begged to know what was going on. I wrote back that I wish I knew. I wish I knew, goddammit.
So without holding back, I’m going to get into what I really really think. The following may be hard for my family to take, but I have to get this out or I may explode and never recover. So if you’re someone who loves me, and/or someone in my family and you want to know what the fuck is wrong with me, lend me your ear and for God’s sake, don’t judge me on this.
When Daren and I were dating, I lived with several (male and female) roommates in different places we rented, and the bunch of people I hung out with included both guys and girls. We were a pretty tight bunch, no drama, many parties and we shared everything from toothpaste to meals, tears and laughter. These people were very much my family considering at the time, I did not have contact with any of my actual family.
At some point, the group started to grow up and move on as people do, and one of the guys and I ended up renting an apartment together, with separate rooms. Him and I got along well and though he was a bit of a chauvinist pig at times, he was overall a nice guy and I obviously trusted him enough to live with him. His best friend was a shy, but good looking guy and we partied together a few times, me often with girlfriends and the two guys, whatever. Young people hitting bars and looking out for each other, you know the type. These guys were like big brothers and I was sure if I had ever been put in a situation I didn’t like, they would have been there in a heartbeat to help me out.
So one night, roommate, best friend and I hit one of the clubs and danced the night away. We shared a cab, came home and the two boys went to roommate’s room, and I went to bed. I was more than a little tipsy that night and took a couple of Tylenol and kept a bottle of water beside my bed, knowing I’d want it in the night.
I fell asleep.
Roommates Best Friend woke me up some time later, his hand over my mouth, his breath hissing in my ear to be quiet. He was in bed with me. Naked. Keep in mind I was dating my future husband. I froze.
I FROZE.
If I could relive the whole thing, goddammit, I would not have froze.
He raped me. The shy best friend of my trusted roommate raped me. And I lay there and let it happen.
I never fully dealt with this. I never understood why I froze. I never understood why he did it. I will never know if my roommate knew because I completely blocked it from my brain. I really don’t think he had any idea, and if he did, he didn’t show it.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. About that night. About my behaviour at the bar, which truthfully I don’t remember, but I was a flirtatious young thing then and I’m sure the dancing and the eye contact just got to be too much for him.
Yes, I’ve read and seen a bazillion magazine articles and t.v.shows telling me that it wasn’t my fault. But me being the kind of person who likes to be in control, I can’t help but think I could have changed something, prevented it.
Still. Why is this coming up now?
Well, here’s my silly theory:
Once I got pregnant with Dylan, I gained 60 pounds. I lost 40 after he was born and kept it off for some time. Since I’ve been married, I’ve been very skittish about any male giving me any sort of attention, so I think part of me wants to be bigger, as sort of a protection mechanism.
So now that I’ve lost 26 pounds by starving, my mind is confused and I’m not sure what the hell I want. Part of me wants to be attractive again, if only for my husband and my own health. Part of me feels as though the only way to get there is the hard way, to destroy myself in the process (punishment for allowing the rape to happen??). Part of me is battling images of my mother yelling at me for eating. Part of me is literally dying to be a MILF.
I have good reason to believe I’m not alone in this. And so I keep writing.
218 Hours until I can see my doctor.
God that seems so far away. This past weekend, short of the pecker conversation, was dark for me. Daren was busy helping a friend with a dryer and I was using every ounce of my strength to do laundry. It’s all folded and sitting here but every time I climb the stairs, my heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. So the family room gets to look like a Laundromat as I slowly take one pile at a time every time I go up.
It’s the first day of March Break. Dylan is still in bed and Thomas is happily playing with Lego. The coffee is not working yet but I’m sure after 2 or 6 more cups I’ll be okay. I have to tackle a bunch of things including work and the kitchen, but when I think about it, it seems like a massive undertaking because I know that the kitchen will lead to the floors and the floors will lead to the bathroom and the bathroom will lead to more laundry and I just. can’t. stop. with. the. cleaning. My heart just pounds harder like that awful story by Edgar Allen Poe.
I wonder if old Ed had a maid?
I wish there were such a thing as hidden floorboards, to put away my own heart until next Wednesday. To carry on as though nothing is wrong, to act as though I can breathe, and laugh, and sing. I kinda miss myself.
Anyway, 218 hours. I can do this. Right?
Last night’s dinner conversation:
“Thomas do you want a pickle?”
“PECKER!”
(laughter from the rest of us)
“A pickle, Thomas….do you want one?”
“PECKER!”
(laughter from Dylan and Daren)
“Thomas…you are going to choke on that pickle..”
“I. AM. NOT. GONNA. CHOKE. ON. A. PECKER!”
~fin~
I’m trying really hard to articulate what I’m feeling to Daren, and to you. It helps to write it out and your comments and emails (thank you) are really helping me look at this from all angles. Daren took me out last night and when we got to the Keg, it was a 30 minute wait. We sat in the bar and I concentrated hard on not throwing up the martini I was drinking.
I knew that I was falling apart right in front of him and that he was looking at me harder than he had in some time. I’ve always been the stable wife, stable mother, stable friend…and now I was falling into this pit of gravel and hitting every rock on the way down.
Sitting in the bar was torture. I wanted so badly to scream, to cry, to puke, to just freak right out. It was like I had a tornado in my belly and my stomach was in complete knots. I knew that he was looking at me with great concentration, and with frustration in not knowing what to do with this person he married but didn’t know. He even said that at one point during dinner. The tears fell silently as I stared back, with no explanation.
I felt as though I needed to finally say to him, to everyone, that I am not going to continue this facade any more. I come from a strong line of crazy and although 100% of people I know and love tell me I. AM. NOT. MY. MOTHER., I am starting to wonder if I’ve had this grip on sanity for so long that my knuckles are white and cramped and I need to just let go, to fall, and hope hope hope that Daren is there to catch me.
I tried to explain it like that and it was met with more looks of desperation, of bewilderment, of pity.
About 10 minutes before our dinner arrived, he asked me the one question I didn’t want to answer: “What have you eaten today?”
I avoided the question by saying I didn’t want to argue, but the truth was, I hadn’t eaten anything. Unless 5 cups of coffee and 3 bottles of water count, which hello?, they do not. He eventually got the truth out of me and was NOT. HAPPY.
Our dinner arrived, mine being a cilantro baked halibut with green beans, and his being something of the red meat variety that was barely dead. It made me sick to watch his plate. Not that I have ever begrudged anyone for enjoying a good steak, but the whole thought of food had me reeling.
I had 11 bites of my food and gave up. The tornado was still spinning, in my head and stomach and I couldn’t continue. The kind waiter (bless his heart), asked me several times if there was something wrong with it and I finally said, “I swear on my life, it’s delicious, but please…take it.” He backed off after that.
We had planned on going to see 300, but I was exhausted, both physically and mentally so we instead cruised Chapters for an hour before heading home.
I will say this: my husband may not know what to do about this, but he is trying so hard to understand, and knows how much I need to be held and loved and listened to. And I made sure I told him just that.
Thank God I married him.
This morning I had to get up and take Cindy to work, and I bought jeans at the store she works at. I was happy to see I could fit into my pre-preggo-with-Thomas size, and spent the money to get them. I was going to take Thomas to get his hair cut but being out of breath all the time and my heart pounding hard scares me, so we came home. Daren will be home soon and maybe he can take Thomas.
Since I know you’re going to ask, I have promised Daren I would call the doctor on Monday. So that’s where the logistics of this thing are.
Where am I?
Standing in a dark room, trying to find the door.
2 more pounds disappeared…and my skinny jeans fit again. Puzzled, but thrilled.
I got the lecture last night. Daren had been away the night before last and when he walked through the door last night, I was asleep. He could not wake me up for a good 10 minutes and even when I did wake up, I was back asleep before he finished his sentence. Exhaustion had taken over.
We talked a bit about what was going on, but the truth is, I can’t explain it without sounding like a crazy person. Thank God he knows I’m not. He held me tight, told me it would all be okay, loved me. Then he went to hockey.
I slept last night for 8 hours straight.
The food thing is a battle. Yesterday I had an apple, a bowl of Cheerios and a bit of turkey and sweet potato. I’m still drinking water and coffee, coffee, coffee. Addict? Oh yeah.
I’d like to say I’ll be okay. I’d like to say I will call the doctor. But I just don’t know much of anything anymore, and I don’t see the point. What am I going to say? I’m destroying myself, but damn I look good? Isn’t that part of being a woman?
I’m still me most of the time - still happy, funny, energetic. When the crashes come, that’s when I get all dark in my head and the silence is deafening. I’ve been blasting music here to feel something. I sing loud and long notes and my heart lifts. I dance to avoid falling to the floor.
Is it possible to feel alive and dead at the same time?
**I’m opening comments, but I swear to God if they look anything like my emails, I’ll turn it the fuck off.? Don’t kick a girl while she is down.? Telling me I’m a horrible mother in the midst of this makes you feel better?? Say it to your mirror.**?
In talking to Jason, I realize how much he wants to protect his daughters, how much he strives to do it right, to be there, to never let them down.
You can try dude, but believe me, you won t win them all. We learn our best lessons the wrong way. (As evidenced by how I learned to just put the icky ice cream down the sick, instead of sneaking the mocha crap out the back door, running my calf directly into a very large, pointy piece of glass. No sympathy from my Dad either, as the blood pooled around my feet) Sometimes, you need to allow people enough rope to hang themselves, so long as you hold onto it with them unaware.
I think of Jason s daughter as someone going where I went, doing what I did, crying the same tears and wanting the same things-her MOM! I see her bright eyes and apple round cheeks and think-I was so young, and yet so old at that age, wasn t I? So much seen oh too soon.
But it made me who I am, what I am. So I do not regret it. Would I change it? Hell YES! But I do not regret what I can t change.
So I wanted to sit down and write out what I consider to be rules for us, for girls without their mothers, without their guides. In our family, some things went right, others, not so much. We did what we could. You can t ask for much more than that when everyone feels so dead inside.
Rule number one?
Do not erase the mother.
We didn t talk about it. We didn t mention it, hardly ever. It was rare that I could express anything out loud to anyone about my mother. It took years before I could do it, before I felt that anyone was listening. Everyone at my house was far too wounded, and struggling with their own pain. I kept it locked tightly inside, ready to spring when allowed.
Many drunken nights later, it would come out at the worst times-when I d sit in the middle of the street, waiting for traffic, when I d throw myself into a friends drumset, hoping something would hurt me, when it didn t, I d start bashing my head on the cement floor. Drunk enough to not feel some pain, I d try to cure the other.
Once I tried to kill myself. I couldn t pin point why, but I didn t want to be alive.
I felt isolated and alone with my grief. I felt that I didn t have the right to talk about it, to work though it, to feel it. I was supposed to suck it up, and deal with it.
I was just a kid.
My school even toed the party line, pretending like nothing had happened for the most part, assuming that I didn t need to talk about it after a year or two had passed.
She was erased. It was like she ceased to exist.
Talk about her. Tell stories. Remind your daughter who her mother was, and what she wanted for her. Your daughter wants to know who she came from.
So tell her.
Also Posted at my home site:
I need to take a break from your questions to talk to you about something that seems to weigh pretty damn heavily on my mind, usually: food.
Food.
Look at that word. It’s so tiny. Yet it packs a punch in my life. In the last week, I have eaten about 5 bowls of yogurt, granola and blueberries each morning, a bowl of blueberries on their own, some broccoli, a bit of rice and corn one night, and a bowl of Cheerios and a bit of coffee. I’ve been drinking water - maybe 3 bottles a day.
My appetite is gone. I don’t want meat. I don’t want anything. I don’t want M&M’s. I don’t even think about actual food most of the time. I’m content to let my stomach hurt. It feels good. I feel good. I’m confused as to where my appetite has gone, but I’ve lost 10 16 pounds this week ( I weighed again Monday morning - wow!). I’ve been blasting dance music, going absolutely nuts on the housework, working, and sleeping very little - maybe 3 hours a night. Physically, I feel fine. Energetic. Vibrant.
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I walking away from the binge eater and headed in the wrong direction altogether?
When I was about 12, I used to starve myself. I was 68 pounds in Grade 7. No one ever knew, not even my best friend. My mother was quite vocal in her hatred for fat people. I have to say, since I had my oldest, I’ve felt exactly that way about my body. I hate it. I have some nice curves, my husband loves it, but there’s my mother standing behind me at every mirror, shaking her head at what I’ve become.
Food and I have broken up. I’m walking away from something that could save my life. Anorexia is on the agenda.
As Nelly Furtado would say, “I’m like a bird,” and apparently I’m eating like one.
Break. Fast.
Feed Yourself Sugarpants!
