deal with it

my mom drew him aside
to say
“it’s not your fault…
she is difficult to live with.”
as much as it hurt
i can not deny
i am
difficult
to live with…
i am
so
what now
do i give up
or hope
for someone
who can deal with me?

better than just deal with me though–celebrate me. someone who enjoys the ride my crazy can offer. because there are good parts to it. really good parts.
but also some annoying crap.
but who doesn’t have annoying crap?
yes, i am difficult to live with. but i can also be a delight to live with.
it’s true.

corrupt

i would like
to stop
feeling despair
when you
leave me
in my dreams
i would like
to stop
feeling despair
when i wake up
& stare
into the abyss of
single motherhood
& the severe lack of options
for said
single mom…
as children scream
& i slowly lose my mind
i think
“surely i am from
corrupt stock….
damaged dna
&
surely
your genes
are just as deeply
flawed
resulting in said
screaming
mind-blowing
children….
if only
this person of despair
could go back
in time
& counsel the me
before you….”

bad bit of mothering these past days…. but, before you judge me, come live in my house for a week.
my minions are off with dusty for the week, & i slowly recover my lost mind.
hopefully enough to do more sound mothering in future days.

my hardest day

the anti-versary of his death
is my hardest day every year
but it’s not
just
the void of losing
a big brother
it also happens to be the birthday
of the one who
tore out my heart
leaving it to dry
& wither
memories blowing past
like the leaves
dead
&
brown
my brother died…
you know how there comes that time
when you need someone more than ever
& they
fail you?
betray
you?
instead of holding you
& saying everything will be alright
they
take the opportunity
to hurt you even more?
true colors…right?
in the difficult times
we see their true colors
my brother died
on my husband’s birthday
& my husband
never forgave me for that.
so this day
every year
i mourn
the loss of my brother
&
the loss of the greatest love of my life
who
as it turns out
wasn’t so great…
but try telling my heart that.

the two things are hopelessly
interwoven
my brother’s death
my husband’s betrayal
i miss both of them many days
of the year
but this is by far
my hardest day.

the self-portrait above was done for an art class. the assignment was to do a pair of self-portraits (i think there is an art term for two pieces that are meant to be displayed together–who can remind me what that is?)
both of the self-portraits echo back to the last post i did “my m” in that they celebrate my brother’s & my love of movies and
terminator to be exact. with a good dose of catholicism.
here is my ode to sarah connor:

anti-versaries….

fifteen years ago
i married the man i thought i would be with
forever
i thought i had done my time
suffered my losses
dug my way back up from hell
& now i was being rewarded
we had a picnic wedding
we had a slip & slide
& a dunk tank
we wore flip flops
made up our vows
and promised to always
always & forever
be there for the other.
what happened?
what went wrong?
like every other event in my life
i have analized
& apologized
& tried to puzzle it out
but i guess i never actually made it out of hell
i was just on a new layer
of fresh pain.

happy mothra’s day

i am not the best advocate of mother’s day.

my own mother–my most vivid memory of mother’s day is when the teacher in grade school had us grow marigolds to bring home and when i presented her with the marigolds i grew for her…she said, “ug. i hate the way they smell.”

and then when i became a mom, everyone would turn to dusty and say, “what are you getting her for mother’s day?”
and he would reply, “she’s not my mother.”
not that he got his own mother anything either.
that was one of my first glimpses that our marriage was not going to be a blissful & magical one.

now i have kids who want to do nice things for me on mother’s day, and i just feel uncomfortable. i feel like a fraud as a mom.

i just feel like a fraud.

especially on mother’s day.

sigh.

maybe i will spend the day planting marigolds.

lips

so i looked at this ink stain

inklips

and i did not draw a labia.
but then i was like, “lips are lips are lips.”
and drew the other set of lips one would find on a lady.

i am currently single and sexually inactive.

if you have read my blog, you  know what an incredible mess i am. today i had to sit my kids down and explain to them that my childhood was so fucked up that i have a lot of anger issues and that i feel really bad for being screamy and calling them “spoiled brats.” (not at all my finest moment…really really bad, in fact.) i tried to tell them that i had really bad role models. that my dad was physically & emotionally abusive. that i am trying–even when it seems i’m not. i’m trying to be a better mom. i get so angry when i feel like no one is listening. so angry. and you know what kids like to do? they like to not listen.
and my dad had us all doing chores from the age of five. like on a child labor level. and i don’t want to do that to my kids because it was awful. but then i get all pissed off when they don’t help me and say “no!” when i ask for help (hence the nasty name calling.)
and then my anger is intensified by the fact that i just spent the past 14 years with their dad who did the bare minimum…and had a bag of tricks for encouraging a person to not even ask him for help…
you know, like ignoring them…
or snapping at them…
or agreeing to help & then not…
until you got to the point where you just fell into a black hole of despair whenever you needed help. i mean, you can see the able-bodied man right there…but when he tells you you are “controlling” or “playing games” when you ask for help…you stop asking.
especially considering your parents did the same trick.
ignoring you when you asked for help.
ignoring you when you asked for attention.

sigh.

so, yeah. i have anger issues.
and i know my kids are the last people on earth who deserve that anger…but they are right there. and kids are brilliant at provoking. that’s what kids do. yesterday my three year old dumped paint on the floor and then later in the same day, dumped pebbles all over the floor. it’s what kids do. they test their environment. they push the envelope. they learn by doing. poppy is excellent at being a three year old.

recently on facebook, some trolls got mad at me because i said i choose not to spank because being spanked only taught me to fear my parents and to not trust them. i said i want my kids to not be scared of me–i want them to come to me when they are scared.
and that upset some women?
i’m really not sure why?
i try to never judge another person’s parenting because parenting is so fucking hard with so many fucking decisions to make.
but they called me a “sensitive twit,” and started commenting things like, “let us know when your kids go to prison.”

there are studies that show that screaming at your kids is just as damaging. i think so anyway. i’m kind of pulling that out of my ass. but i think i read that somewhere. i think about that every time i lose it and scream at my kids.

but i’m not going to hit my kids. i’m not. as much as i want to sometimes when the anger is white hot inside of me and my eight year old has just pelted me with a bouncy ball after screaming, “i hate you.” i’m not going to hit him or grab him by the arm or physically hurt him in any way. i’m not going to spank a three year old for dumping out paint…but apparently i will scream at an eleven year old for not putting the paint away….

parenting is fucking hard. especially doing it alone. their dad gets mad when i call myself a single mom because he thinks that is insulting to him??? we have been divorced since 2010, but i am not allowed to say i am a “single mom.” of course,  i have felt like a single mom even when we were “together.” the other day he hadn’t called in a while, and i started fantasizing that he had died. fantasizing that i was free to live my life. fantasizing that i could find the kids a new dad that would show them how to be nice to the mom….
and then i felt disappointed when it turned out he was still alive.
i am an awful person sometimes.

i want to be better. i want to heal. i want to know what to do and to believe i am not fucking up my kids–constantly. every day i make it through without screaming, i mark it as a win. i hope i can move that bar up a little bit…one day?

 

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