Here I am, working on finishing Book #21, and thinking about all that is going on. The class I helped teach is graduating today. I can tell which of the male students were crushing on me by their invitations to graduation and Grad Night. I’ve had to graciously decline several times today. I just can’t bring myself to go to Grad Night or the celebration.
My mother is off the respirator. She’s still dangling on the plateau of living and dying, but I feel that she is getting better. Thank you for all the prayers. Please keep sending them her way! Much love!
Hope everyone has a happy Mother’s Day!
My mother is doing a little bit better at the hospital. If you’re not on my Facebook profile (and you should be as I don’t bite!), I was given some shitty news from my stepfather that turned out to be a lie. He was either told the wrong information, or he intentionally gave me the wrong information, and that is really an awful thing to do to someone. So I went into panic mode. I was really afraid that my mother was going to die. Then I went to see her on the 8th. She was stable, her body is fighting the infections she had (pneumonia and sepsis with some fungal infection). She was asleep because of the infections and is now on morphine to stop the pain. But she is alive, she is stable, and I want to repair my relationship with my mother. This bad-ass attitude that I have towards her is really for the birds and I have to get my affairs in order.
As of May 7th, for the next few months, I have a new shrink. I’m not crazy over him, but he seems to want to help. First thing he wants to do is stick me in the institution and have some observations and test run. Of course he does. What the hell? Am I the first schizophrenic patient these shrinks have ever encountered? Oh well. Might as well get it over with while I still have time off from work.
Have a fun, safe Sunday, everyone!
My mother is in the hospital. I’ve known she was in there for a while, hence why I planted the Zinnias and picked her up a pink tote bag with a full bottle of Sunshine perfume.
Today I was told she has 24-48 hours to live. I’ve already made plans to go see her tomorrow. Maybe take her the husky toy I bought her. My stepfather says there’s no reason for us kids to go because she doesn’t know where she’s at or who anyone is. This worked for my brothers, but not me. There are some things I feel I should say to my mother before she goes.
I told my stepfather before he left to go to the hospital that I wanted only two things that belonged to my mother: the strawberry Coach key chain I got her for Mother’s Day back in 2008, and the rice paper butterfly Fossil watch I gave her for her birthday in March 2008. That is all I want, and I want her to know that I want it and am taking it.
I don’t know how I feel about taking those things before she’s dead. The watch stopped at 4:15:5. The battery died. I also have a stack of DVDs of her shows that she wanted me to record while she was in the hospital. My older brother wants her house, the other older brother wants her car. I want something the lawyer can’t give me: Time. My mother never got to hold Zinnia. We were going to take a “Four Generations” photo, but that is not going to happen now. My older brother tells me that our mom had a bunch of antique jewelry that I could sell. Unfortunately I don’t know who to give the money to to give her more time.
Please pray for my family.
Again, still knocked up.
I’m starting to sound like a broken record, aren’t I?
I’m beginning to feel guilty of asking for so much time off from work, when the kid seems to be a permanent attachment to my insides. I read Carl’s FB post and he’s having a hard time grading papers, doing lectures and making PowerPoints for upcoming lectures, all while writing the third exam. I love his lines “I’d fucking fail this goddamned exam, if I had to take it! That’s how little I know this psychobabble I’m preaching to sleeping pharm students every morning and afternoon!” I think there was a GIF of my work ID photo burning as the icon. But, Carl, you wanted to be a full time professor! That’s what you told my boss! You even suggested that you be promoted just because you couldn’t get pregnant, in your own words, you were unpregnantable, a word that doesn’t exist, by the way, and therefore you were more reliable, responsible and respectable than I. Little did you know that I was over sixty percent of the meat in the exams, PowerPoints, Lecture notes, grades, and even the handouts and the agenda. I was that valuable.
Still, his brother is my dream man, so I’m going to forgive him this once, pretend that I was deaf at that staff meeting, and offer to come in and grade some papers or just go through the online grade book and assign everyone an F because that’s what they deserve if Carl is telling the truth and people are sleeping through his lectures. I say “if” because I know Carl lied about being more responsible than I (he’s behind in everything and it’s almost two weeks out of Spring Break!), he’s certainly not more respectable, naming names on his Facebook, friending students (my personal NO) and then linking to their profiles when he goes on a profanity-ridden fit when he’s frustrated, and forget reliable. Maybe Carl is pregnant? That’s got to be what’s wrong with him. He’s demanding help from other Assistant Professors tonight, and when they decline because they don’t want to get behind in their own work, he calls them irresponsible and lazy! Oh Carl, you are so not getting promoted in August.
So, since I’m legally going to be pregnant until August, and Mark told me to get rid of the brain tumor while I was off for four months, I feel that I should be doing something productive. Something. Anything. I even made Josh a PlayList for March because I just want something to keep my fingers busy, I’m sick of this …disease… that I caught from unsanitary Carl at the staff meeting a few weeks ago, and I need to occupy my mind. I need something to do. Something that makes me feel accomplished. Something that I can look back on and say, “I did so much while I was waiting for that kid to be born!” that I’m willing to sit down at my computer and write.
So I’m going to work on this site.
By “working on this site,” I’m going to start by changing my handle to “Acid Queen” but that’s not an LSD reference. Not for me anyway, and I’m not secretly Tina Turner nor have I fucked Roger Daltrey or any other member of the Who. I like the name, and I once drank a flask of hydrochloric acid in high school chemistry, I lived, cancer-ridden but alive, and still here to talk about it today.
Being the Acid Queen is one of what I consider one of my stories.
By stories I mean interesting things that have only happened to me.
Back in the day, before the perils of being forced to upgrade to WordPress because Josh is a cunt and makes me do uncomfortable things, I had pages on here of my stories. They were 100% true fascinating things that had happened to me in my twenty-eight years on Earth. I’m going to be thirty-three, the Jesus age, this year, so I think I should have an accomplished and full website like I had once before. Oh yes, this site, due to my own negligence, has become just a shell of what it was just a mere five years ago. When I first had my own .com and was in college and thus had a lot of time on the computer to write, I frequently wrote about things that made me interesting. I edited my own HTML (remember that? do you even know what that is???), made layouts on the college’s Dreamweaver, uploaded with Blogger.com and an FTP client. I had to link to all my own pages with my own editing. Nothing was automatic like it is with WordPress. You kiddies don’t know! Blogging and site maintenance was once something that required time, skill and patience. Now anyone with a fucking keyboard can be a site master and appear to be good at it.
What will my stories contain? That’s the wonderment of you’ve got to keep coming back here and checking things! I can give you a taste, though, for example, did you know that I had a lover who died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York? That I’ve fucked someone super-famous (it’s not Roger Daltrey, I promise!)? Actually two someones, but sex no longer counts once you marry the one you’re fucking. That there is a famous love song out there that is about me? That for the first fifteen years of our relationship I couldn’t tell my husband from his brother and his brother regularly got sex from me because of it? Okay, that last one is just me being a horny bimbo, but, hey, it’s interesting, right? I could make something of it some day! The best of all of this is I am considering naming names. Famous names. That are on Wikipedia and you’ve probably not only heard of, but that you’ve got songs by on your computer or your CD shelf.
Now that you know all that, aren’t you just itching for me to dish, dish, dish?
Of course you are! But I’m doing this as a side pregnancy project and only through August, though I can probably whip up to thirty pages per month, if I’m really dedicated to it.
Oh, and I promise not to write about drug experiences, with the exception of the prescription drug I was given that caused amnesia. That was a pretty fun experience. I could do shit and not have to feel guilty about it the morning after. I pissed off a pretty good amount of people while I was on that drug. Oh well. The true ones stayed.
Have a good night everyone. Don’t stay up too late!
It’s the second day of spring, but outside it could pass for late November to late December. Shades of gray, dirty white gray skies, bare trees, dead grass. There are sprigs of green all over the neighborhood, but I’m a little more into my own personal little trip than what is going on outside.
I have a cold of some kind. Sore throat, endless snot, something stuck between my nose and throat. Generally miserable, but refused antibiotics. The heat is cranked up to the triple digits here, but not by my doing. I have a horrible stomach ache, but I refuse to eat food or drink cough syrup, for fear that I may hurt Little One. We’re so close. So close. No narcotics these last few days. No alcohol. I think I got drunk in August, but that was an accident. Accidents are struck against you in pregnancy.
Two of my male students have come up to me in the past few days and asked me if I could help them out over spring break. I gave them the news that I was not coming back until the fall, so it’s best that they go bother Carl. That’s what I label students these days: Bothers. Work is a chore that I frantically search my mind every morning to find a way out.
Last week I was put on Seroquel XR at 300 mg to help me “feel better.” All it has succeeded in doing was making me not so sensitive to the assholes online who poke me with sticks, in hopes that I will engage in a flame war over something that ten years from now, no one will give two shits about. I certainly don’t give two shits about it today, but I felt that I should be able to voice my own opinion about it and just go on. Unfortunately there are people out there that cannot go on. They poke and prod others until flame wars break out, and I just refuse to tango this time around. I wonder if it’s as fun for them, with their single-sided fight? Probably.
I’m happy to be away from the knee-jerk, “OMG! GOTTA REPLY TO THIS ASSHOLE!” on the web way of thinking. In that manner, Seroquel XR has freed me from my own stubbornness, but not from my own self-loathing that comes with my personality.
Take me for who I am or leave me for who I am not and will not be. It doesn’t really matter to me at the moment. I have a baby due on Monday. I can’t care too much for what the world thinks of me, or how badly the world tries to change me. I know that I am not breaking any rules, even though I refuse to teeter on the line of “Super cautious” because it’s just safer that way. I like where I’m at. I think I’ll stay here a while and see where it leads me to. Hope all is well with all of you out there in internet land. Smile. Leave a comment. I insist!
Today is my oldest daughter’s Fourteenth Birthday.
Or it would be, if she were alive.
Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.
Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo’s doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and “out of body” for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.
It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.
PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.
Her death was ruled an accident.
Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo’s body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there’s no reset button, and you don’t get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn’t an animal, and she wasn’t unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe’s tumors were declared benign. I don’t think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.
Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.
Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.
I’d also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don’t update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn’t mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don’t know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being “right” I really don’t care. I don’t have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.
Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.
I looked up some old haunts today.
People I haven’t even thought about in years, simply because I have been busy with other things. Relationships, schooling, grabbing up credits, health, things like that. Reading up on them, I felt a little inadequate, to say the least. One of my fellow writers from back twelve years ago is published now. With the exception of publishing my nephew’s journal entries on being a terminally ill teenager with DID, I have not been officially published, as in having a book on the shelves. If it wasn’t for my nephew’s insanity, I would not have my name out there, at all.
Then there’s one of my old pains in the ass. She’s gone from a liar who had potential, to a burned out drug addict with a child who has been taken away from her. I could look at her mistakes and see where I am better off, but I choose not to go down that road. Of all the horrible things she said about me on her various blogs and websites over a decade ago, to trying to get into my hosting because she wanted to take down my site, I’m sure that she does not remember me. She has just that many enemies. Even though I remember her very well, she has fucked over so many people in her journey, she can’t possibly remember them all.
My downfall is that my memory, at times, is too good. I remember the lies, the abuse, the most vibrantly. I suppose that is a coping mechanism, a way of survival, of some sort. I just spend hours taking medications to erase those memories, only to have the better part of my memory bank erased.
That’s the funny thing with my research. I can achieve the goal of erasing a memory, permanently, but I cannot specifically choose said memory. It’s usually something benign, and harmless. Survival method. I have to find a way around that.
I feel as though I am standing still while even the most hateful people I have encountered in my life are progressing. They don’t deserve it, not in the least, but they are getting ahead, they are achieving their goals, such as they are, and I feel as though I have done nothing progressive. I have not reached my research goal that I started six years ago. My kids are not any smarter than they were years ago. Here I sit. But I am still standing.
In a random news: I am going to another party chosen by Matt. This time with Dennis. The doors are opening in about an hour, so I must get ready to go. I don’t think I will wear fish net stockings under rainbow knee-high socks this time!