I feel better today, knowing that the hearing is over. We may have to appeal a third time, and I’m all for that. Our lawyer is certain that it may happen, and this time I really don’t care. One of my medications really breeds apathy. Nothing seems to bother me these days! You’d think it would because of all the things floating around, but it really doesn’t. Some of them even amuse me. That’s the power of psychiatric drugs. If we could only get our friend Krystal on them, she wouldn’t be freaking out over a stupid single website that exposes her lies. Being apathetic isn’t passionless. It’s blissful apathy. I have my passionate moments, usually late at night, wishing that I could have some alone time with Dennis. Especially when he sings to me.
After all of this, I secretly hope that we did get approved. Michelle, Lance and I. We’re fighting for our back pay and our previous jobs. I want to work where I worked once again. That would make everything better for me. Of course I don’t know if I want to give up teaching. I’ve become quite attached to the job and my students. I love grading papers and seeing the students repeat what I have told them. I really have an audience who cares about what I have to say where they memorise what I tell them and write it down, sometimes years later. I am leaving impressions on people’s minds and how they function in the world. It’s I who have natured and nurtured impressionable young minds. You can’t do that cutting up dead corpses.
This weekend, on Sunday, I’m going to go shopping for my father’s Christmas gift, Chloe’s candy and teddy bear, and a box of Christmas cards. I really want to get the cards sent out the day after Thanksgiving so I can have that done for the year. Anyone who wants a card and is a regular reader of mine, just email me your mailing address. It would mean a lot to me if you could send me a card this year! It’s been an interesting year, to say the least. Have a good night everyone!
I spent a few hours on the site, jazzing things up for now, and asking on forums what I can do to make it better. I really want to make the site “prettier” if I can.
My mother is going to be coming home, so the hospital says, but they said that it’s going to be a long time to rehabilitate her. I’m happy that it’s even a possibility!!
Today was the last day of school for Chloe, and guess what? She didn’t bring home a yearbook or her class pictures. I paid over $150 for two yearbooks and over thirty pictures of her and her class. I’ve already filed a complaint with Josten’s, but I’m not sure how well it will do with the three-day weekend coming up and people just busting to get out of their offices and get to their vacations for the summer. I wish I could relax and have a good start to summer, but the whole idea of losing $150 is really unsettling with me. I emailed the school and they said she wasn’t there on picture day. I know that’s not right because we got a receipt from the photographer.
Working on the site reminded me how bad my back truly is. Cancer eating through a spine is a real doozie. Don’t let it happen to you! Just sitting here for an hour really hurts. So editing the pages, tearing my hair out, crying to Josh via webcam, and all that other shit was truly painful. I hope that if you’re passing this site you at least leave me a comment telling me how awesome I did on the site! Or leave me some constructive criticism! I’d appreciate either/or.
I never got that sex I’ve been craving. I’m sure you wanted to know.
Have a good night!
Thirteen years ago, I was contemplating sex with a stranger, at the risk of being labeled a slut. Today I am contemplating screwing the lead guitarist of a band that my father bought every album of, just because I will be covering the band’s concert here this spring. Open relationships mean one thing: Trust is more important than monogamy, and “hunk o’ burning love” is taken literally. The problem arose when Dennis did not want me sleeping with any man except himself, something that wasn’t fair, as he confided in me that he had had several “encounters” on the road, then “clarified” that they had all been between bandmates. What? He’s screwing other men? It’s not surprising to me, but it really threw our therapist back a few inches.
But if I had sex with another woman and he could watch, that was fine.
Isn’t it always?
I have been in conversation with the guitarist that I am planning on conquering this spring, and he’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know what I’m planning, yet, and a good groupie doesn’t divulge what they are planning until the moment happens, but he offered to buy me coffee and talk about the tour. How nice. I needed a shot of insulin after that conversation.
Hey, my manager says I have to be nice to the bands that I interview! It’s out of my hands! If we give them bad publicity, they may shit on our publications, and we’ll lose readers. Normally. Knowing today’s youth, if a band said “[This] magazine sucks!” millions of people may jump out and buy it or order subscriptions. Unfortunately, the managers don’t think like that, and if we get bad publicity from a band, the reporter who caused that bad publicity is fired. Permanently. So, it’s my motto to be a groupie in disguise of a reporter! Besides, I’ve been a groupe since I was fifteen, and I’m still waiting for that one “bad thing” to happen to me to spoil it all.
Dennis has been trying to get me to rethink many things on my agenda. Things such as sleeping with this guy, packing up and leaving the family, and other “mistakes that I am going to regret” in the future. I replied that he sounded like a middle school teacher, preaching about “the future” all the time. I’m at that point in my life where I don’t care about the future anymore. I just want to make it through the present and learn to let go of the past. If that means that I am a whore or a slut, or a “druggie whore” as one of my lovely blog visitors has referred to me as (I can see those referrer logs, dumb ass!), then so be it. It’s amazing that people really care that much about what I think of them that they are willing to insult me over an invisible media. There’s the discussion of what this may be “setting for Chloe.” I can honestly say that my own mother’s promiscuity had no effect on how I grew up, other than I wish she had not physically and emotionally abused me in the process. Other than that, it’s her body, her pussy, her choices. I’m not married to her just as Chloe is not married to me. If Chloe grows up and has sex with Marilyn Manson, good for her! I hope she at least gets his autograph out of it all!
My biggest concern is that I don’t know if I can go through with it. I’ve been having that problem for a long time now. Call it a conscience, call it chickening out. I don’t know what to make of it. Ideas?
Before any rumors start to fly, why yes, I did some dumb shit and hurt myself this week:
So in the last couple of days, I have had a little bit of fun. After the trauma of finding my husband unconscious on the floor one early morning, and he spent some more time in the hospital, this time for an insulin overdose, I surrounded myself with friends and people to build me up, emotionally. One of the places I ended up was at a lifestyles party. A private party. Private as in I can’t disclose the place it was held, and I’m not supposed to name names, but I ended up going with Matt. I got in free because he convinced me to hide my wedding ring. Single women get in free. I spent four of the six hours just in shock of the people there, feeling each other up, having sex in plain view of others. I was the only one there, sitting awkwardly at a table, nursing a glass of ginger ale.
I ended up following Patrick upstairs and we both fell asleep in the hotel room. We were run out at 8am the next day.
Matt wants me to go back this weekend and bring Dennis along. Of course I still have to play the part of the single woman, for some reason. It would be cheaper if we paid as a couple, but this is Matt’s plan, and Matt calls the shots when it comes to public sex in this city.
Speaking of public displays of sexual encounters, Matt is my date for the Sweetheart Dance this year. In just two days we will awkwardly dance to a Buddy Holly song while dressed in 1950′s garb, and wait to hear how we lost at a 1950s dance competition. Again. For the fifth or sixth time. We’ve entered every year since 2008, and we never, ever win. Matt says it’s because I’m “so fat” so I blamed him, saying the judges thought we were both women. This year, I doubt that I can fit into my costume, but I can try, right?
Little One is actually waking up and sleeping peacefully for eight or more hours at a stretch. It’s really calming to have a baby sleep during the day while you’re still pregnant with said baby. We don’t know the gender yet (haven’t asked), but we have a unisex name picked out: Everly. I think it’s really strange that Everly is due on March 25th. My first child was born on February 25th, and Chloe was born on July 25th. The boys were due on October 25th, but because of some scheduling problems, they were born on Halloween. If Everly is born on March 25th, we’re assuming we’re having a girl. It just seems so right, you know? Have all the girls on a 25th. And yet we still forget their birthdays on a regular basis.
There’s the dilemma of a middle name. That will depend 100% on whether Everly is male or female. But we’re still deciding on that, despite the arriving due date.
Today Dennis was released from the hospital. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t expecting him to call me and say that he got a ride back to our place. Getting that message at 6pm, I packed up what I could from Vance’s place, gathered my little ones, wrote a letter to Vance explaining where I was going, and left. He’ll find it at about 6am, when he gets home from work. It was harder to leave Vance than it was Dennis. Vance always kissed me good morning, good night, hello and good bye. He kissed me for no apparent reason other than I was there, and he felt like being affectionate. Dennis, on the other hand, thinks that by marrying me, he never has to tell me that he loves me anymore.
My mind has been wandering tonight. First from the medical tests that revealed Stage III cancers in two more places, to discussing surgery, alone, in that huge hospital, to knowing that I am going to have to see the therapist tomorrow. My tits are sore from the mammogram and the biopsies. My armpit is sore from the biopsy. I feel as though I will be alone in my battle, had I not gotten back together with Dennis when he called me. Vance would not miss work, no matter what, even the day that I had my Gamma Knife surgery. He dropped me off at the clinic, went to get coffee, and came back in about two hours and picked me up, distorted and disoriented. I was essentially alone. Today was a horrible reminder of this.
The thoughts that raced through my mind kept me anxious. When I heard the technologist tell me that lumps were found in my breasts, that a lump was found in my side, I wanted someone there, someone familiar, to hold me. I wanted someone to be there to tell me that yes, the road was a frightening and strange road, but that I was going to get well, and I didn’t have to go down it alone. That would have made the entire procedure 100% less frightening for me. The only person there was the technologist and I, and I certainly couldn’t hug her. She was so cold and sterile. The x-ray machine was cold and sterile. My nipples bled during the procedure. I was shaking by the end of the procedure, wanting to sit down between shots, but the technologist kept telling me to stand there, we were “almost done.” Forty minutes later, and much blood on the x-ray machine, I was told we were finally “done.” I was shaking. I’m not used to standing that long. I’m not used to something squeezing my tits that hard for that long, in those exotic positions. But I survived it. Alone. In that huge, cold, lonesome hospital. As I was walking back to my car, I saw that it was pouring rain out. I walked slowly to the car, feeling embarrassed that I had just shown my tits to a stranger, and that I had to face said stranger. I also felt as if the hospital was going to swallow me up, with the twists and turns and such. I just wanted to get home, change, and sleep it off. But then Dennis called to tell me that he had been released from the other hospital, and was at our house.
Gamma Knife surgery was as bad as the new diagnosis. They screwed a box to my head. Underneath the skin. The box was to keep my head still, and only allowing movement when the huge CT-esque machine was ready to move my head. Couldn’t they do this some other way?! I could feel the screws grinding against what I could only logically assume was my skull. I wanted to faint, but I’m not wired that way. I stay awake for the whole gore-y situation. No matter what is being done to me. The same thing happened when I got my root canals done a few years back.
Somehow, things just feel like they should be this way, you know? I feel as though I should be here, in this house, digging through a mountain of laundry, lightly teasing Dennis, while we watch worn-out, has-beens in rock. It just seems like this is they way things should be. Even though my heart is craving kisses and smiles and someone who doesn’t scream at the kids at every opportunity, the Continuum is no longer in danger of Chaos.
If you don’t get that last reference, it means that all life as we know it would cease to exist because I wasn’t playing my part in the Universe. Now that I am, I have saved mankind, somewhat. Be thankful.
On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.
I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to “we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you’re not thirty yet, so we’re going to keep you nice and fertile.” And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don’t know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.
Too late for that now!
I’m not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I’ve taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One’s heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.
The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don’t want one. It’s only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*
My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I’m not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels’ whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.
I’m no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is “Why? Why are you doing this when it’s so close to Christmas?” Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It’s a gold band with diamond “shooting stars” across the top. Inscribed on the back is L’amore è per sempre. Italian for “Love is forever.”, the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.
Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn’t see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don’t remember anything after that. I’m hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.
I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.
The kids never woke up. I’m going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.
I’m not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.
Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I’m going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!
Did anyone else feel that? The world stopped turning! It’s all over! But it seems there’s internet access in Hell, and MacBook Pros, so it’s not all that bad. Plus instead of drinking from the polluted Styx River, I get an IV drip again. But Paradise wasn’t always so. I sleep more. More so than I should be. I am taken, every day, to that CT room, injected with something that makes me sit still, laying on that cold, sticky table, as I’m injected out and about a ring that I know I’m going to get stuck in. Tears pool out of the corners of my eyes, dripping onto a table where they will dry yellow. Yellow? I’m not crying piss, I promise.
My chosen one has chosen to go back to heavily drinking. Triggered, I requested a new, private room, not to be listed. Change my name if you have to, because when he starts drinking as much as he is, two full bottles of whiskey per sitting, he becomes violent, and having an IV tube so close to me, I’m a sitting duck. I might as well have my head in a noose and be standing on a three-legged chair.
The night nurse is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting for him since I met him on Monday evening after I was transferred to this specialty hospital. I’m the youngest on the Cardiac floor, and one of two patients of my night nurse. I have limited resources, just what I can pop on my phone. Someone sent me a shit load of music videos from the ’80s. I’m not too ungrateful, but I have to wonder why someone would send me Elton John videos along side hair band metal? Apple is probably scratching their heads over this. They must think that I’m some kind of a pervert. Ok, well, I am, but they don’t need to know that!
Last night I had my first shower in ever-so-long. Nurse Sexy said we were going to get in the shower together. I was a little disappointed that all that happened, somewhat, was that he helped me scrub down. I had my first six orgasms in that shower. *grins* He complimented my backside, then quickly corrected himself in saying he was talking about my tattoo. Sure you were, sure. I told him that I was dizzy from the temperature and pressure changes in the shower, so he told me to hold his hand. I grabbed a hold of something else, and he made it a point to tell me that wasn’t his hand, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Best single sided sex of my life.
I’ve been put on injectable insulin. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better now than never, huh? I don’t inject over four units at a time because my blood levels aren’t that high. Of course I’ve been chowing down on ice cream and Tootsie Pops and Life Savers since getting the news. No more Metformin for a while, we’re going to go straight to the insulin overdoses. Nurse Sexy came in and told me he had something for me to suck on, but not to suck on it too hard because the juice might come out too soon. He then gave me some kind of a medical lollipop, the outer part was to deaden my taste buds for the vile liquid center. And yes, my heart rate sky rocketed when he told me he had something for me to suck on that was going to explode in my mouth.
One thing that doesn’t help is that I have been put in isolation for so long that I feel worse being here. I question why I was admitted, but then I get a new medicine to try out, and my mind goes back to blank.
I’m hoping to get out before Christmas. Hoping. I know that hoping and looking at the actual statistical facts on hand are two different things, but I can dream.
We got a tiny snow storm while I slept last night. Nurse Sexy must have come directly to my room to check on me during the start of his shift; he had whole snowflakes in his hair. I asked how much longer I was going to be here. I actually want to be out in this snowy, wintery mix, amongst the dumbasses trying to drive on it, than be here, tethered to machines, my only escape is an iPhone with shit reception. I have a stack of forty or so unopened Christmas cards from people who just realised that I am not where I’m supposed to be. I want to go outside and play in the snow. Make a snowman and get some food colouring and really go to town.
While I want to leave the hospital, I fear where I am going to end up. Going home seems to be the right idea, but I don’t think I can go back there. I can’t live with a violent alcoholic, who refuses to get help. I can’t expose myself, my children, and the bun in the oven, to violence. At the same time, Chloe is bonded to her father. She loves him dearly, and after studying psychology for years, I know what may happen if I take him away from her. I have not asked why he started drinking again. Eight years sober, and now this. He came in to see me drunk. He said things, made remarks. I asked if Trevor was there, and he said no. When I expressed this to a mutual friend, they suggested that Trevor wouldn’t be honest, if he were in control, because he dislikes me. Trevor wants to sleep around, get high and wired, drive drunk, take swings at cops, then runs away, leaving Dennis holding the ball, getting in trouble. I’m not sure if I believe the Trevor Did It story anymore. There was a time when it made perfect sense, but now it just seems too convenient to be true. Dennis and Trevor have both hurt me. Trevor has never told me that he hates me, but Dennis has relayed to me that Trevor wishes I’d die, and that he never agreed to my marriage to Dennis. Dennis tells me that Trevor was the only one in the system who disliked me and did not wish to see me on a regular basis.
I’m rambling now. I should be trying to sleep, begging Nurse Sexy for another shower or at the very least some good pain medications.
And if the world ended, no one told me. So I’m still here, and apparently, so are you, so there.
Don’t forget to like my page here! You know you wanna, and that you can’t help yourself…