Archive for December, 2010
New Years is upon us. I hate the way I feel like wanting to throw a fit whenever it happens. Like, you are forced to look back on the year gone by and then you ask yourself WHAT THE HELL DID I DO? Well, I know this has to be one of the better years, hate looking back on the year and thinking of all I did or didn’t do, and how it’s going to affect me for the rest of my life. Now I can’t speak for anyone else, but this is my take on it. New Years has been a sort of torture for me since I broke up with my first boyfriend. That was the first time I realized “hey, this is REAL life. Things aren’t always going to be cool.” And what pisses me off about the whole thing is the importance placed on New Years: the party, kissing someone at midnight, and the resolutions… I mean, who started this freakin’ tradition anyway? All of those things are good in and of themselves, but what are those of us who don’t have a party to go to, don’t have someone to kiss, and know the resolutions they have to make are overwhelming… what are we supposed to do but stress, freak out, or get depressed? hmmm…
And I know what some of you are thinking… that we just need to get over it and deal with it like everyone else. Well, I’m trying. But that doesn’t change the fact that another year has passed, and that I feel this burning desire and pressure to make the new one kick some serious arse… but I’m scared… afraid that I won’t be able to conquer my fears. Do you know what I mean? But I’ll try all over again, and hopefully someday I’ll get it right.
So that’s why New Years sucks for me. But hey, don’t feel sad munchkins. If I actually had something FUN to do tonight, I wouldn’t really give a damn about any resolutions or kissing… I would just get drunk, dance naked around the room, and have the time of my life 
hehe… so have a raucous, debauched, absolutely sensational New Years Eve, and get home safely!!
Winter Lights 2010
WW: What’s To Come
I indulged a little today. Who’s it hurting anyway? I called Doc Dan and asked if I could bring Chloe in for a pee-drug test. He gave me some lame, “Not today” type of excuse. Fine. I really don’t care anymore. I’ve done the best I can to keep her out of my percocets and I still think she is getting them. Probably not because she’s able to unlock my little wooden chest or pick the lock on it, but because her father is giving them to her in several doses throughout the day to make her sleep through the night. Brilliant man. See, this is the shit that I’m talking about. One minute Dennis is a loving father, a kind, excellent husband, then he goes and takes away my pain medication and gives it to our five year old because she won’t sleep at night. The kid has never slept at night or through the night. She is nocturnal. She wakes up around midnight and wants breakfast and baths and everything. She falls asleep around 5pm the next day. Her sleep schedule is based on her father’s band’s tour schedule around the time she was born. The reason? For the first month or so of her life, he cared for her. While he was on the road. Chloe slept in the back rooms, or was left in the back rooms to sleep, while the band had their shows. I was stranded in the hospital with severe infections and hemmorahages.
Enough of that.
I’m sure my harasser(s) have more than enough information on me, now, to turn me in to child services. I mean, that’s what they do, right? They could never use the disposable income they so proudly brag about to fly out here and face me, so they do things to me behind my back.
Chloe also lost her necklace she got for Christmas. It’s somewhere out in the backyard. I don’t have the energy to go looking for it right now, though it was pretty expensive. Over $100 with taxes and things. I could send her loving father out to get it, but I doubt he even remembers what it looks like.
I have treatment this Saturday. Maybe then I can find out why I am feeling so damned bad. G’Night Everyone!
When I first found Sandee’s blog in 2001, I was a misfit soul. I wanted nothing but what was best for me, and I didn’t particularly care how I got it. Reading through her entries, I assumed she was riding on the coattails of a recent outed cancer faker, but after nearly a year of writing, producing pictures of her treatments, and descriptive details of her survival, I opened up to Sandee, because it was clear that she wasn’t just blowing smoke up our asses. Back in the days following the Kaycee ordeal, many, many, many bloggers, some popular, some not so popular, suddenly had terminal cancer. Think of it these days as following a trend to get more hits. Sadly, Sandee and I may have been the only ones who did not pretend to have something that no sensible person would wish on their worst enemy. Never mind pretend to give it to a person their friends were closest to.
Four years ago today, my nephew died of cancer that had spread to his brain.
Four months ago, I remember reading that Sandee’s cancer had gone to her brain.
Today, I logged on to FB to read that she had died, today, of her cancer. Cancer that had gone to her brain, after starting somewhere else. I have shared this with few others, since I doubt anyone else would care, or accuse me of “living in the past” since Sandee was one of the first bloggers who inspired me to tell my own story. I can’t link to her blog; she doesn’t have one. Her blogs were at bluetterfly.net and day-without-rain.org. Maybe that will jog the memories of those of you who read her at one time or another. When I come across it, I’m going to post her obituary. It’s only right.
DX: We’re Not To Blame
According to the psychiatrist, I am not the crazy one. Dennis is not either. The doctor did not name a specific person who was to blame for all that happened, but I could see the possibilities that he assumed that someone was the reason we cannot function as a family. Being in love and compatible doesn’t require work. It just happens. We have made so many changes over the past four years that we have been married that we’re not the people we were in 2006. I’m slightly relieved about that. Through these changes, we haven’t quite adjusted our lives to meet with them. Sad, but true. Neither of us were prescribed any medication or therapy beyond our sessions, but we were assigned to keep five-day journals of what we feel is going on in our lives. Bring them in next Tuesday, and a video tape of our interactions so the doctor can see what we’re going through.
Our therapist feels that we’re healthy to one another, and that neither of us is to blame for the rocky road we are traveling down. The falls in the ladder, or the detours we feel we need to take. I have a different opinion on that, but what do I know?
The doctor asked to read my blog. This blog. It came up in therapy that I spend so much time improving this site, or interacting with total strangers on the web, that Dennis feels somewhat left out. Sorry. That’s not what I intended to do. My dreams of us being happy, of me wandering through a University looking for my classroom or professor, of me watching my things burn, or being on a mission to disarm radioactive materials, they all mean something. I am not fulfilled in life. I turn to the University to find my way, but I cannot even find a classroom or teacher. I endlessly wander the halls of a University, the courtyards, the booths, and I find nothing. I dream of dancing in the rain and getting tattoos with my husband, because that is what makes me happy now. Then I dream of working with radioactive materials because that’s what I do now. I am searching for something to calm the storm that is inside me. My kids are never present in my dreams. They aren’t part of that world. I feel awful about that. What if that means I’m not meant for motherhood? What if that means motherhood is the place where I will ultimately fail?
These are the things I have to write down in that journal I’m going to keep for the next few days. Maybe I’ll scan those pages for here. Or, just hide them away with the dozes of other journals I have locked up in the chest in my closet.
Time to go indulge in some Guilty Pleasures. 
Deep and Dark December
I have a bad feeling that Chloe has been taking my percocets. There are several missing, and while her father’s vices are slowly re-emerging, I don’t see him as the type who would take pain medicine away from me, especially knowing that I am suffering so. I don’t know how to go about checking to see if she has taken the medicine or what. I asked, and she didn’t confess to anything, but that could be because she has learned to lie. Where she picked up that filthy habit, of lying, I don’t know.
Dennis and I haven’t been eating right lately. I feel a little better, so I’m snarfing down nachos, Cheetos, Doritos, cheese, candy left over from Christmas, and Coke. Yes, I’m back drinking sodas again. I was giving some shit about that, but I really don’t care. If I want to drink it, I will. There’s no law that says I can’t.
January 4th I go back to see my surgeon. January 5th, I go to the back specialists. My (asshole!) physician charged me $98 for a “missed appointment fee” and when I called to complain about this, his response was, “If it hurts, you won’t do it again. My time is very valuable.” WTF? I’ve waited over an hour past my appointment times to see him before! I didn’t charge him any fees for that! The icing on the cake is that this little charge has put my credit card $35 in the hole. I have to pay it all up by Friday or lose my eight year old account. Bastards. Merry Christmas to you, too. Of course my physician doesn’t want to see me until this bill is paid in full. Lovely, nice man, huh? I owe Doc Mick over $2,000, but guess what? He’s still going to see me next week and administer my treatment. I owe this guy just a little over $400 and he’s acting like I’ve robbed him blind. Oh well. Can’t win them all, huh?
I need an escape. I wonder if we have anymore Cokes in the fridge. 
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