Morpheus

Not much sleep happening here. Got 40 minutes this morning, 20 minutes this afternoon. That adds up to purple monkey dishwasher.

Discarding

Writing has been on my mind lately, but not much actual writing has occurred - except here. Which isn't at all a bad thing, as any writing is good. GOOD. Durr.

Jeez, my brain is just not working today. Well, scratch that; it was working this morning when I had to let my Eloquent Angry Bitch out to play with a stupid, stupid oil company who fucked us over recently. Maybe that was my daily allowance spent, who knows.

Sometimes I dig through my old drafts and notes to see if anything worth writing about is stashed away in there, hiding from the light. Some old stories and prose are in there, never to see the sunshine. Today I tried to find something in there that would goad me into action. Instead, I found records of my dreams and (more often than not) nightmares from last decade, all there, waiting for me to relive them. My therapists have all had this proposition in common: keep a written record of my dreams, always. Now, I dabbled in dream reading for about oh, gosh...twenty years now. My therapists interpretations have always matched mine in many more ways than not, so I don't feel like I'm a shitty dream reader, but I'm obviously not an expert. That said, one of these nightmares I'd so horrifyingly preserved had every symbol and sign that screamed GET THE FUCK OUT, YO that I am now embarrassed to admit I hadn't left that situation even a year later. What the hell, me? Yeesh. However, this served a purpose, one which I will finally tell you because even I'm boring myself with all of this preface shit.

I am so glad to be who I am today. 


There are so many ways my existence could have gone, each more terrible than the last, but I made it to thirty fucking five years old with nothing actually horrific in my present life. Sure, it would be nice if I wasn't disabled, and yeah, maybe it would be easier if I wasn't clinically depressed, but you know what? I'm not dead, I'm not living on the streets, I'm not selling my body and I'm not in jail. These are all definite plus marks in my book, and probably in my Mommala's as well.

Once upon a time, I was asked by my therapist to write out a list of each trauma I'd experienced, whether it was abuse or self-inflicted, something I'd witnessed or something I'd blocked out. I did it. I wrote that list. I wrote every frightening thing I'd ever been privy to and then promptly curled up in the fetal position and cried for about three days. But you know what happened afterwards? Nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. No bad news, no attacks, no break-ins, nothing! But it wasn't until today, after reading that dream journal, that I realized my past has nothing - NOTHING - that will creep out of dark corners and bite me. No one will ever beat me or throw me into furniture, no one will rape me, and no one will ever be able to subjugate me, ever again.

I made it this far, and goddammit, I will make it further. 

Etiquette

It would appear that there are enough stupid people on the planet to warrant this notice:

Handicapped Accessible Bathroom Stalls Are NOT Phone Booths. 

You read me, bipeds? Oh, I know; not all of you do it. It's okay, I understand. No, no, you go ahead and tell your friend allllll about the shoes you're wearing, I don't need to piss or anything. What's that? You have a right to privacy? Well, dearheart, I have a right to PISS IN A FUCKING BATHROOM STALL. 

And you? You have the right to fuck off. 

Goddamn morons. 

There was a staff member at the location this took place yesterday who, gods bless her, she pounded her fist on the stall door and berated the asshole! As I rolled out (after using the shitter, finally), I stopped to thank her, and to say the following:

"For every ten assholes, there's one awesome person, and I am glad you are that awesome person." 

See, she didn't have to harangue that phone-dick; she did it because she actually knows what is right and what is wrong. She renewed my faith in humanity, one badass punch at a time.

Next time you see someone using a handi-stall as their personal sitting room, embarrass the ever lovin' shit out of them for it. If that doesn't work, come find me - I'll take care of it. 

Day

Today is Father's Day here in the us. I'm sure you can imagine my joy.

The hub is taking us + pater to see the guy who really raised me, the one who kissed away my booboos, taught me to ride a skateboard and how to be Me, the best parts of me. He's the one who stayed up all night when I cut my wrist badly, which was his idea (note: you cannot, in fact, see your own butt by sitting on a mirror. Lesson learned.), but he also let me read his prized Thor comic book, which is one of the Very Best Memories of my life.

Happy Father's day to my best and only big bro, Jay.

I love you!

A rare day

I am home, laying on my bed, relaxing after a lovely and wonderful morning with my Mommala. She is awesome.

When I got home from our jaunt, I see that the hub and his cat are both crashed out on the couch and the pater is snoring in his room.

It is so nice here, just now, with no one else awake and no chores to do for the moment. I can just sit in our room and do what I want, which apparently is to blog about nothing but a good day, so far.

Zero

It has been repeatedly brought to my attention that pater has absolutely no respect for my husband or myself.

So that's happening.

Condescension, laziness, dishonesty, seemingly purposeful untidiness and an arrogant attitude are not the ways to endear oneself to others, especially when you're starting out in the negative.

At what point do I choose my and my husband's health over the pater's? My therapist says to tell him to Get The Fuck Out, so at least I'm not delusional.

We've a few hours respite, I'm off.

Why I'm also called Stummy Dubborn

I came by this moniker honestly and easily, which isn't the best thing ever. My heritage is Italian and german, but I was raised by the Italians. Thus, stubborn. My brain cashes checks my body can't cash. Thus, dummy. See also: sawdust for brains.

Today, I earned it once again by trying to pull a light cord I had no business reaching for, slid on the floor and plowed into the bed corner with my kneecap. There's my tale of whoa, slow down there dipshit!

With love & squalor,
Esme