So you thought it would get better? You hoped he wouldn’t do it again? Stupid, so stupid girl. Why didn’t you learn your lesson the first time? One bruise wasn’t enough? It took a cut on the face and a fat lip? It took his hands around your throat knowing he wanted to choke the life out of you? Maybe it did. I want to be done. I want to be done with it all. Why can’t I just be done?
The monkeys are flying again
They bring the doubts, the insecurity, the fear of abandonment
Who feeds you bastards??
The Wicked Witch is dead.
Or is she?
Maybe she is my alter ego.
She feeds you those everlasting tasty morsels of deceit, unfaithfulness, and verbal abuse,
And you take flight.
How do I clip your wings and keep you grounded forever?
I am in a little pain today. Tooth pain. I hate tooth pain. It’s the worst kind of pain, I think. I am sure it will go away in a day or so; it just sucks a little bit right now. I felt the need to write this morning, after my blurting/venting yesterday, sparked some of my followers to say “What the fuck is wrong with you?”. Most of them said it in a nicer way than that, but really, when it comes down to it, that’s basically what they were asking.
Anyway, it got me wondering what my motivation for being with The Cowboy is? I think there are numerous reasons, but at this point I can only identify a couple. The first one being my need to be a caretaker. I have been a caretaker all my life; always the person my friends would come to for advice or help. For the last 12 years I have had the most important caretaking job there is, which is being a mother. Those of you who read on a regular basis, know that my son is now going to go live with his dad full-time, and I will only have him every other weekend. But even before the decision for him to live with his dad was arrived at, my son had already started pulling away, becoming more independent. If you are a good parent, you know this is what you strive for, for your children to be able to take care of themselves and to be productive members of society. It seems my son is getting a good start on that, and I will continue to co-parent with his father to make sure he becomes even more adept at it. Presents a problem for me though, because what am I to do with all this time on my hands? I guess I need to find someone else to take care of. Enter The Cowboy. Is he capable of surviving on his own? Yes, I suppose he is, as he has made it 42 years without me. But, he is struggling right now, can’t quite get his shit together, is depressed over the fact he is 2 1/2 hours away from his son and doesn’t get to see him on a regular basis, and he feels like shit because he fucked up a good job and is struggling to find another one. It just so happened that we were dating when he got fired, and he decided that was a good time to move in. Which, if he was making money, and contributing to the household expenses, would be helping me out tremendously, but right now he’s not. I am financing pretty much everything. If I turn him out, it would be to nothing. I can’t do that. He is my friend, and I wouldn’t do that to a friend. Would I like him to be more appreciative? Hell yes, I would! To me it doesn’t take much to say thank you, and it does mean a lot. However, I have had other friends I have done things for who have never said thank you, who have never reciprocated, and they are still my friends, for various reasons. I would feel like a bit of a hypocrite believing I am a good friend, and then kicking his ass when he’s down.
One of the other main reasons is because I am broken. Off-kilter. Fucked up. Screwed up. Odd. Out of the ordinary. Half a bucket of fucking crazy. I’ve never been given a diagnosis, except for depression, but there’s something a little off about me. I choose not to try to put a label on it. I won’t take medication anymore. I have tried medication, and it doesn’t really work for me. I choose to ride the roller-coaster. I prefer the roller-coaster. That being said, I need someone who can put up with my particular brand of crazy. Can The Cowboy handle my brand of crazy? Right now he seems to handle it okay, but in the future who knows? All I know is that a so-called “normal” guy probably couldn’t live with me. My ex was somewhat “normal”, and I was just too much for him. He was too straight-laced and I was too off the charts. I have a “normal” side, one that works hard, and cooks good, and keeps a nice house, and is a good mom, and can even sew and quilt, but that’s not all there is to me. The Cowboy can relate to my half-bucket of crazy side, because he’s got his own half-bucket of crazy. I suppose that means together, we have a whole fucking bucket. We’re going to have to be careful carrying that damn thing, or it might slop over the side.
I love you so much
Why have you become so judgemental of me,
Of my choices?
What is it you wanted me to be?
I am a college graduate.
I am a good mom.
I am a homeowner.
I am an individual.
I don’t think like you.
I don’t feel like you.
I am just me.
And at 44 years of age,
I don’t know how to be anything else than me.
I believe you want what’s best for me,
but you can’t decide what, or who, that is.
I am the only one who can decide those things.
Your passive/aggressive ways only drive me farther from you.
Your snarky comments only make me angry.
You used to know when to be my mother, and when to be my friend. . .
I missed Wordle Wednesday due to a migraine, so you’re going to have to suck it up and take it on Thursday!! I love writing bad poetry!
Heart reassurances
I need to hear them
Whisper them in my ear
I shouldn’t have to ask
or stand outside the house of your heart
Banging on the door!
Open it!
I just read where the Sedgwick County, KS, Sheriff has decided to ration shit paper to inmates at the jail. They are decreasing their supply from two rolls per week to one. The sheriff says not only will it cut their shit paper bill by half, but it will deter the inmates from using it to intentionally clog toilets, or as seals for vents when smoking contraband. The inmates are in an uproar and are claiming their rights are being violated. Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. How about this? Get your ass out of jail, get a fucking job, and buy yourself as much shit paper as you want! (And before some liberal bleeding heart gets on the bandwagon about civil rights bullshit, they said they will make allowances for indigents and inmates who are ill.)
Oh, one more thing! This shit paper ain’t no cheap ass John Wayne kind of institutional stuff, it’s fucking Charmin!! Mr. Whipple would be so proud!
Please don’t squeeze the Charmin, and don’t shove it down the shitter either!!
*For shits and giggles, read the tags.
Love me some Wordle Wednesdays!! Had to sneak this one in at work, because I’m really supposed to be working. Some day I am going to have to go back and repost the “bad poetry” I’ve managed to piece together from these Wordles.
Proximity,
always desired,
always missed if ever achieved.
You wandered into the door of my mind,
bringing with you,
your sexual escapades and debauchery
Leaving me mental, mute
and in need of healing.
When will my thoughts,
and my body,
Stop pining for you?
Take me home Toto
back to the firm, hard ground
dirt packed and cracked beneath my feet
Be a good dog
and stop this whirling and spinning
in my brain that causes me such anguish on this balmy Kansas day
Those nasty little flying monkeys
of doubt and insecurity and distrust
won’t let me have any peace
I really want to be a good witch
with a pretty dress and a sparkling tiara and a lilting voice and golden curls
But instead I see a hook nose and a tight-lipped mouth reflected back
when I gaze into my crystal ball
I pedal faster, faster, faster
Never fast enough to outrun the cyclone swirling through my mind
He dwells in the past as if it’s a house he’s rented with a lifetime lease. I ask him why he does it, why he can’t let go. His answer? “I have.” But it’s quite obvious he hasn’t. He harbors resentments, anger, ill will. They all rear their ugly heads at one time or another: when he speaks of his parents not supporting his bull riding dreams, when he speaks of being laid off from a job in 2006 which pays more money than what he makes now, when he speaks of women who left him years ago, and most often when he speaks of the mother of his son kicking him out, because it’s the freshest and in the forefront of his memories.
He still carries a picture of him and his son’s mother in his wallet. It bothers me. We only have one picture of the two of us together, and it’s not a good one. She still has her own ring-tone on his phone. As far as I know, I don’t have a special ring-tone on his phone. When we go to pick up his son, or drop him off, I have to wait somewhere else and can’t be in the car. Should these things bother me? Am I being shallow? Am I being juvenile? The truth is, some days it really bothers me, and other days it doesn’t bother me at all. These things are no reflection on me as a person, but it does worry me that these things are having an influence on our relationship.
A friend told me last night not to let it bother me, because it’s not that he can’t let go of her specifically, it’s just that he “can’t let go of the past” in general. I think she hit the nail on the head. Many of us have things we can’t let go of, whether they be people, situations, feelings, addictions. We all have to deal with them in our own way, in our own time, and let go of them when at last we decide the burden of toting them is too great. I know one thing though, it sure makes me glad I have a forgiving nature. I can’t imagine carrying around that much anger for that long. It must be exhausting.
Fiction, and other made-up stories
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