Today's Post Brought to You By the Number...

Random thoughts of today:

# of my toes desperately in need of a pedicure: 10

# of eyebrows that need to be waxed: 2

# of loads of laundry to do before Monday: 4

# of bathrooms that I need to clean this weekend: 3

# of days before Mother's Day: 3

# of cards and gifts I've gotten for my mom & gramma due to forementioned Mother's Day so far: 0

# of guitars I've re-strung this week: 1

# of fingers that are annoyingly numb from playing the new wire-wrapped strings I put on the guitar: 2

# of days before school's summer session starts: 24

# of books and supplies I've purchased: 0

# of hours before I get my baby boy back: 27

# of days the kids will actually be able to spend with eachother this month *crappy*: 2

# of irritating hang-up calls I've received on my cell phone today: 2

# of juvenile drama queens I work in the same building with that drive me crazy with their back & forth gossiping: 2

# of half-siblings on the way for our kids: 2

# of therapy appointments set up for my son this month due to things like ex-spouse's new daughter on the way and the mass confusion it's caused: 2

# of hours left in this workday: 3

# of cigs smoked today: 5

# of grocery store trips planned in the next 24 hours: 1

# of grocery lists and meal planners I need to write: 1

# of pounds lost since the beginning of the year: 13

# of pounds left I want to lose: 17

# of times I've wished I wasn't at work: 1,274,983,091,477 *and counting*

# of cigs I plan to go smoke right now while I clear my head so I can focus on "work": 1

Sore, More, & 7 Years Ago (Today)…

Anniversaries… Are generally days out of the year, earmarked in time, meant to be celebrated. Yet for each of the 12 months out of the year, I remember the anniversaries of unpleasant events. And being me, I can do nothing but reflect on them, until I’ve beaten myself up, am worn out, and my past, deep wounds have been re-opened, and those raw feelings I’m able to repress throughout the year resurface their ugly little heads, and I leave myself open til the date passes so I can band-aid it ‘til the next year.

Every single month out of every year… I don’t have a friggin’ 30-day break. I remember dates too easily, and can never erase them out of my mental calendar. For every month out of the year, there’s a date pegged in my brain to remind me of a family member’s death, a holiday I was forced to spend in the hospital for injuries I never should have had, etc. I could go on and on about each and every single one, go through all the months of the year, and the dates in between and their associated tales of woe, but if I did, it wouldn’t be a blog… It’d more than likely be a best-selling novel. I’m too worn out today to throw down on a project like that.

September 5th, 2006. Here we are. 7 years ago today… I said the two words “I do” in front of family, friends, the Lord, and directed it at my then soon to be pronounced “husband”. And every year ever since, did I ever receive any kind of recognition for all I withstood year, after year, from said “husband” on said “anniversary”? No. I never got what I rightly deserved, before, during, or after that day, from that marriage. And ever year on this day I cry. I don’t cry necessarily because things didn’t work out. I definitely don’t cry because I miss him. Not only do I shed tears (which I abhor doing), I mourn.

I mourn the loss of those years I spent putting up with cruelty, indifference, disrespect, struggling, cleaning, cooking, running myself and my body into the ground, working multiple jobs, changing diapers, being a human punching bag, buying in-law birthday and Christmas gifts, throwing his family’s anniversary parties, driving his mother back and forth from the airport for work with my child in the backseat at all hours, working, working, working, crying, trying to tell everyone everything was okay when they knew better, separating myself from family and friends so they wouldn’t feel bad for me, give me a pity tone in their voice, or think I wasn’t the successful person I was meant to be, you name it…

The lack of laughter, the non-existent appreciation, the absence of love, kindness, strongly feeling as though I deserved to be treated like I was nothing, that I was a worthless workhorse and I couldn’t ever do anything right, all while trying to spare my son from any fright or pain or injuries for that matter, while we all lived in the same home. That was me. And I still can’t believe those years were spent like that, day after day, after month, after year. I’ll never get them back, and I mourn the death of my youth, and any pain my son has, or will, endure because of that union. I’m alive, yet I know what hell is like.

Throughout every damn thing I withstood, the single thought I kept thinking over and over and over was “You’ll be righted one day. One day, you’ll get what you’ve deserved all these years, and you’ll have your shining moment once again, there will be closure and justice, and you’ll be able to begin anew”. After a horrific divorce process, and custody battle, I didn’t get my moment, and he (and them) never did get their come-uppance, either. I know they will in the end, but in the meantime, I once again, have been passed over on what I know now that I deserve.

During my drive to work this morning, it began. I thought surely I’d be able to make it through my workday, drive home, keep it together ‘til the point I could sit down, and get the emotions out, but nope. It began to rain outside, just like on my wedding day, then the emotions of that day, and every day since hit me, so I let some tears go. Thankfully I didn’t become the normal sobbing hiccupping mess I generally turn into. I’m saving that later for the 6pm hour.

So while it’s just another rainy Tuesday in the month of September to others, it’s a day I dread all year long. There was never a rainbow at the end of the storm for me, just the aftermath left for me to deal with and clean up. I know when I wake up tomorrow morning, all these memories won’t have been a nightmare, they’re unfortunately real, and there most certainly won’t be flowers at my door, a check for the house and things that were taken from me and all my legal costs, no apologies for all the torture I was put through, no thank you’s from any of those that were so happy to accept all my services, then turn around and berate me, there will be nothing but my sore and sorry self.

An anniversary – a day meant to be celebrated… That never was, and never will be… And I mourn for all the losses that began, and are associated with this day.

A ‘Lil Limerick

I love the way you look at me,
Your eyes so bright and blue.
I love the way you kiss me,
Your lips so soft and smooth.

I love the way you touch me,
Always sending chills down my spine.
I love that you are with me,
And glad that you are mine.

I love the way you make me so happy,
And the funny ways you show you care.
I love the way you say, "I Love You,"
And the way you're always there.

The first time we met, I could see,
Your eyes were so gentle, your smile so true,
You held me, you played with my hair,
And when you first kissed me, I just knew.

These days I shall cherish, for years upon years,
The memories we have, shall never fade,
Now the time has gone by, through laughter and tears,
For those are the steps, that together, we have made.

That was the past, the future is near,
I anxiously wait, for what will appear.
New memories, more laughter, and our children so dear,
Everything will be wonderful, as long as you're near.

BEHOLD - THE POWER OF THREE’S


Today’s blog is brought to you by the number 3...

Throughout my life, the power of the number 3 has always seemed to be influential. Born on the 3rd of April, one of my father’s 3 daughters (the first in his life, yet not the oldest – typical American family – go figure), 3 moles on the right side of my face, 3 mothers in my life, 3 scars on my left hand, the 3 spirits in the Holy Trinity, etc.

Deaths always occur in 3’s. 3 friends killed in high school within the same year. 3 family members died tragically within months of each other, then years later, another 3 family members gone within months of each other also. 3 bunnies in a nest that didn’t make it. Looking back, I can’t remember one death without thinking of two others that occurred around the same timeframe.

Now I have 3 people in my immediate family that I love, take care of, clean up after, want to do things for, and adore. This morning I had 3 lights in a row go out as I drove underneath them while I was thinking deep thoughts. Not 2, not 4. Another paranormal activity that has always happened in my life. Lights going out during emotional moments – not necessarily good or bad. Magically, things like this always occur in three’s. It’s so mysterious to me. Every phone number I’ve ever had, has always had a three in it. The phone number I currently have, and have had for years, has three three’s. You add up all the days in my birth date, and you get 33. The number 3 – my lucky number. My number.

I’ve always been so connected and joined to this number. After finishing the book I’ve been reading for a little while, a story about a physicist, his life, and how his highly ingenious mind works. Leaves me thinking about how the answer to every theory, every situation, could be transformed into an equation, that will inevitably be answered with one number. Everything in this world made up of molecules, cells – all can be transformed through equations into one definitive number.

So I suppose, whatever my equation is, will inevitably be equal and solved with the number 3. Makes me wish I knew what my equation was.

MOTOR MEMOIRS:

Silver anniversary corvette, silver on the outside, black on the inside. T-tops off, sitting in the passenger seat and looking in the side mirror at Linda’s white corvette following us, her driver’s window down, and wavy blonde hair blowing everywhere, supermodel style, and tanned arm exhibiting itself occasionally as she smoked a cigarette. Her matching, appropriate, 80’s style white monstrous sunglasses sitting on her cute little nose, and me wishing that when I grew up, I would be pretty and cute and tiny and cool like that. Linda was sweet as can be. She had it all – looks, personality, outgoing nature, cool car and matching sunglasses – oh and did I say looks?

Then I remember looking back at myself in the mirror, my long, out of control red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the short hairs that framed my chubby face all messy and frizzy, blowing around, observing my thin dry lips, wishing my dad thought I was old enough to put some lipstick on like my mom would let me do occasionally, seeing my freckled, sunburned nose, and realizing that when I grew up, I was going to be like me, not her, or anybody else I wanted to be that wasn’t like me. Like it or not. Nothing to be done about it either. Accept it, D. Then looking over at my father driving us home to his townhouse in Houston after Mexican food at Ninfa’s, and hoping he wasn’t wishing I’d turn out like her either, that he’d always accept me for being me. Pretty heavy thoughts for a 7 year old.

White convertible mustang, blue interior, white canvas automatic top. Top down. Fall time of year. Out for a drive just to get away. Cold outside, but the top being down didn’t matter ‘cuz I had the heat blaring. Slow roast style. 17 years old. Just got my hair cut, and using my sunglasses as a headband to showcase the new ‘do. Cruising down Northgate Drive, listening to Steve Miller Band belt out Joker, smelling the Ellen Tracy perfume I used to wear back in the day, thinking about Seth and wishing things were different, and keeping an eye out for the same cop that gave me a ticket on that road just a year before. Independent, young, surrounded by things that were “me” in every aspect, yet I was sad. I missed my friend, my confidant, the first person I had ever felt really connected to. And I realized that any other person that would come into my life, that I would appreciate, and care for, I’d manage to screw it up somehow by being me. Every time I drive down Northgate, which is often, I always have a flashback of this memory.

Dark red Jeep Wrangler, tan top. I loved that car. Me in the passenger’s seat (which was a different experience since I hardly let anyone drive that vehicle), hot outside, yet the top was up. Bawling. No radio on. Being driven home after leaving the hospital, and also leaving behind what would have been my now 9 year old child. Hurting on the inside more than the outside, drained from the fright, the pain, not able to get the thought of all that blood out of my head, and feeling the inexperienced driver shifting gears not smoothly, but just jerking me more, and knowing my life would never be the same. Wanting Arnie out of my life, wishing something like this would’ve happened with someone I loved so that I could accept the compassion that I needed. Instead I didn’t want to hear the I’m sorry’s, nor let him touch me or to give me a hug, I just wanted him to drive me home, get in his car, drive away and never come back. I’m thankful he did.


Postscript:
It’s amazing to me how in this generation, this period of time, vehicles tie in with so many of our recollections. Memories of sights, sounds, surroundings, smells, and situations, all tied in with what car we were in. Pinpointing exact thoughts and ideas, or realizations, and being able to remember all of it when we think of that car, or even see a like model on the road to whatever destination it’s going to, creating memories for its passengers on its way. These are just a few of mine… They fill my thoughts recurrently, if not constantly.

Trash:
1 : something worth little or nothing: as a : JUNK, RUBBISH b (1) : empty talk : NONSENSE (2) : inferior or worthless writing or artistic matter; also : such material intended purely for entertainment2 : something in a crumbled or broken condition or mass; especially : debris from pruning or processing plant material3 : a worthless person; also : such persons as a group : RIFFRAFF

Treasure:
1 a (1) : wealth (as money, jewels, or precious metals) stored up or hoarded (2) : wealth of any kind or in any form : RICHES b : a store of money in reserve2 : something of great worth or value; also : a person esteemed as rare or precious3 : a collection of precious things


9,865 days. 27 years. A collection of both trash and treasure. Many things discarded, some held in reserve. Why some things are with me over others, I still wonder…

In this interim period of transference, my fingers walk over all these material collections, memories come flooding back from each, stress welling up in my head and heart, from both pleasant memories and horrific, as I pack each and wonder…

A box full of books ranging from cookbooks to childhood mystery novels to my adoption papers kept in a shiny red Neiman Marcus box. Maddening closed adoption papers with a small and brief card of medical history information handwritten with maybe my birthmother’s hand, maybe some stranger. Everytime I read it, I wonder…

Just like this box full of books and papers that I either could care less about, or have decided to keep with me all these years and tote around through every exasperating move, I wonder – was I trash (a.k.a.: a worthless person), or treasure (a.k.a.: a person esteemed as rare or precious)?

Which hits higher on the scale? Being a person that wasn’t worth keeping to the one that made me, carried me inside them, went through the pain of bringing me to life to just give me away with no other contact in life, or being the person for the two people that wanted a child, yet couldn’t have one, and waited on a waiting list for me to arrive years later, and keep, and hold, and parent? 9,865 days later – I still wonder…

The first thing I lugged and dragged out of the outside storage closet into the cool air conditioned climate was the container full of pictures. Right on top – two smiling faces cutting a cake in a lovely reception hall. One handsome in his tux, truly in love thinking that day was the first day of a joined life with his soul mate. The other knowing better, more intelligent, yet not, happy to have attention and love from someone, feel as though she was a part of a family, and also wishing the day, the cake, the dress, the ring – was being shared with someone that fulfilled her heart, and made her ache when she wasn’t with them.

Being naïve and wishing it was someone that could understand her thoughts, her emotions, share intelligent conversations, want to be something in life, and laugh at impractical behaviors. Yearning for that love that’s so magical, so intense, but not thinking she deserved it, would find it, that it was even real, or not screw it up somehow. Why I still keep these pictures, still in their beautiful frames, out of sight, but knowing they’re nearby, I wonder…

Trash: a worthless person… Only a worthless person would go through with those holy vows knowing his aggression, his lack of intelligence or ambition, knowing she could have very well lived her life alone and been perfectly happy.

Treasure: A collection of precious things… A precious day, in youth, two faces in their prime, beautiful in their own way, in lovely clothes, in a perfect picture, decorated with beautiful frames… The day that should’ve been shared with someone else.

Now that the aftermath is over, now that the damage has been done to both parties, here I am in my self-referenced pristine existence. Divorce final. True life begun, and seeing the scars for what they are. What I deserved, and yet didn’t.

A beautiful child created, and loved and fought over by all, how lucky I am to have gotten something as amazing as this beautiful boy out of that union. A true gift from God.

Not searching, not really wanting it at this point in my life, but finding myself found. Found by someone that my heart is linked to… Someone that I do love with my being. A couple of pains in the ass that think the same thoughts on the inside and worship each other on the outside. Perfect for each other in every way. And someone I had known in a roundabout way since childhood (if that era in my life can even be called childhood). Knowing it’s right in my heart, how I’ve been given an un-deserved second chance, and wondering…

In this new relationship, with all this love and yearning in my heart… What am I to him? Am I the trash (something in a crumbled or broken condition), or am I the treasure (a person esteemed as rare or precious)? What am I to me? To my parents? To my son? I could’ve lived my life independent, as is my nature, as I believed I would, but here he is, and I love him. Is this going to be the happily ever after, my prince I always dreamed about in my favorite Cinderella tale? Will I end up receiving what I dished out? As I prepare myself to join this prince in a new life together, dragging along my own trash and treasure, so many thoughts, memories, and scenarios come to mind,

And I wonder…