Just incase this ever happens again, I have a couple of off server blogs, Recovering Beauty and Comatised, a tumblr, and several scene journals, gamine, stxr and Christina. What can I say? I love to write, I love to get feed back on my writing, and I always want that option there to write online if I need it. But I have been online for way over a decade, so I’ve gotten around some.

I am back on my Cymbalta. I don’t remember why I stopped taking it, but I did. I don’t know if I’m happy with being on it or not. I am also on another diabetic drug that I don’t know if I want to take. Low blood sugars scare me so much and I don’t know how many of them I can take. I was already put under ‘watch’ today, having to have a ‘baby sitter’ to go out and buy Valentine’s Day gifts and a little somethings for me. I picked up some illuminating foundation for my face that leaves a small shine of glitter after I put it on. It goes with the power foundation I bought last year. I now have the whole set! WooHoo! I picked up some Venom DooWop lip stain, and a tiny little tin of peppermint mints for Chloe. She wanted her own make up and lip stains, since I was getting some. I had to explain to her that like with her pierced ears, she has to wait to get to use make up. But then I ended up giving her a small make over in the hallway outside the candy store. Our skin tones are practically identical, and she acted as though she was a princes after the make over. I wish I would have thought to take pictures.

The last stop of the day was Walmart, so I could get more DVDs to record more movies for my mother. I picked up some candy for the family. Those large Carousel Lollipops. I gave the boys and Chloe each a Wild Cherry pop. I think the DVDs are going okay. I’m sleepy from my meds, so I haven’t checked on them. I should be napping. I have a lot to get done tomorrow.

There I sat, tears streaming down my cheeks in the barely lit room, reading and highlighting pill books and doing bio-chemistry conversions. The master plan, so to say.  He didn’t talk about what I was doing, or why I was in the state that I was in. The sheer urgency of needing a light at the end of the tunnel told him the bad parts of the story, so he didn’t have to ask. He convinced me to call a family member in Las Vegas, or that was their last known whereabouts eleven days ago or so. So I called. A familiar but unidentified voice was on the other end of the line. I asked for my family member and there was a pause then, “Oh, he’s already left. I’m sorry.” Before the “sorry” was ever there, I had fresh tears pooling in my eyes. The sure thing, the one who would care for me no matter what, was already gone on to who knows where. I had thrown out his number before hand, so I couldn’t call him.

Feeling trapped I said my thanks and was about to hang up with the man on the other end of the line offered to take a message. “Do you have [his] number?” I asked. “Of course. But I don’t know who you are, so I can’t give it to you. It’s not my place,” he replied. I felt somewhat relieved. While I was giving the info to him via a speaker phone, my friend James was telling me things through FB to ask. Under any other circumstances, it would have been pretty funny. The guy on the phone asked me who was there, and I said I was chatting with someone through a video, and he replied, “You’re not crazy love, I can hear him too.” I had a feeling of who I had on the line, but I had to ask, and I was right. I felt a little embarrassed about calling his room, upset and thinking horrible thoughts, but I wanted out so badly. We finished up the call, he wished me well, I thanked him, and returned to my video chat. James hit the nail on the head when he asked me who it was by name. I saw his eyes light up. “Why don’t you go live with him! And bring me with you?!” Another thing that would have been funny under different circumstances.

I came to many conclusions last night and tonight. One of them is that I know who I can count on. I know who really loved me. The sad part is that I am not as smart as I thought I was. I thought I would never be taken in my another Roxanna again, and it’s very clear that I have been. She used to promise me hope of deliverance from my domestic violence situations, and then never fully able to go through with it. I didn’t need food. I didn’t need money. I needed companionship, someone to tell me that I was not alone. Someone to tell me that everything was going to be alright and that they were going to be there for me through it all. Looking back at those messages, I have to wonder if I was conversing with Roxanna again. Did she change her voice again? Where is she getting those devices? They all sound like different women, but they use the same sentence structures, same words, same phrases and life stories that she presented to me eleven and a half years ago. How does she keep fooling me off of the computer? Will she ever give up? What is so important that I have that she wants? If she just tells me, I will gladly give it to her for her to leave me alone forever. I am no longer even interested in keeping a record of her lies online anymore because I want her to leave me alone. I won’t even white knight for her future victims anymore. Discover the bitch like I did. Carry on the torch as I tried to. Just. Leave. Me. Alone!

In the mail this afternoon, I received a plane ticket to New Jersey. Do I want to go? Not especially. I can bring along the little ones, but only one carry on luggage each. The tickets are one way. There’s no turning back once I do go. I have faith in James, though. I know if I go to him, he will really be waiting for me at the Newark airport. He will really take me to his place. I won’t end up lost and wandering around alone somewhere down Texas way, with no way to get to even an enemy that I know down there. Not that they would help me, but it would be a familiar face. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned from all of this, but I have to say that I should have learned it a long time ago when  I first caught Janna in her lies and then caught Roxanna in similar lies. But I fell for it. Maybe it’s my weakness that every human has a heart and compassion for another human being in help, though I know many who have turned a blind eye to me since childhood.

James put a light at the end of the tunnel that I was in. I didn’t know if it was a train or the sunshine, but I could see a light and that was all I wanted to see. It was all I needed. I’m happy that he gave me that hope and didn’t just push me away when I reached out for help. Even if he had not sent me any tickets anywhere, and just conversed with me last night, not shooed me away because his mind and heart were on other things, I would have been just as grateful. I’m saddened a little that I did not marry James when I had the chance, but that’s just one of a thousand regrets that I am going to have to live with.

I was in a relatively good mood today. The weather was nice once again, and I got to talk to Nick about what we were all going to be doing when I get to the Golden Coast. I still want to make that perfume I mentioned in yesterday’s post. I want to gather the wildflowers by the seaside in Sydney. Those flowers are in full bloom right now, and they will be so nice for the next four months. I want to get to the batch in the mid-summer, so they will put out better, stronger scents. I have a feeling I will be doing this the Friday before we leave. I hope Mandy likes them!

I’m still cleaning up after my harasser. The lies were against me eleven years ago, after a two-year tango with my harasser lying to me. Ten years. That’s too long to be thinking about things like this. I should have let it go. I was doing so great, even though said racist harasser commented nearly fifty times an hour, for twenty-four hours from the same IP and computer. Damn. I attracted a shut in! But today, all of that is gone, forgotten. I am saddened that I lost all of my first round of archives. I’m going to print out some more pictures that my mother wanted and hope that she doesn’t destroy this batch. I’m unusually tired tonight and it’s not even 8pm yet. What is wrong with me?! Speaking of my mother, this is probably the last batch I do for her for a long time. I found out that she stole more of my medicine for her meth-addict sister, so I get to go to work suffering.

I called Nick in tears over this, and he said that he would get me another bottle or two of the syrup, and we could be together on the plane going over. Just us and Chloe. I could sip or chug as much of that syrup that I could take. I smiled at that thought.

When we get home from this magically summer ride, we’re supposed to start prepping to go to Las Vegas! Another road trip! Good thing I am up for these things! I feel so lucky and so blessed, even if I am one kidney short and my heart is still weak, and I am exhausted. I will get to Las Vegas and I will see Mandy. Those are just two of the things that I want to do now that the only thing holding back is my own tight grip on the railing to the stairs. If I leave, my place will get robbed, my pets killed, and my house trashed; possibly burned down. Or maybe the fire won’t happen, and someone comes in and steals our computers, DVD-R, flat screen HD TVs, Wii, you know, all the stuff we worked very hard to have and got with in a few years of being motivated.

I keep thinking about seeing my friend there with me in Las Vegas. Maybe Dallas. I have a seminar there about blood cancers, what treatment worked best for me, what to expect, and what parents and care givers can expect when their child is on chemotherapy. I usually hate these seminars, but this time, I am looking for an excuse, any excuse to get out of the house for a little while, drive down town and come home. I’ll feel like I’ve had a “real job” as my harasser says. Because a job should never be something one enjoys to do for larger salaries than some boring cashier at a video store. But I guess they truly value their child-hating cashier who laughs hysterically when kids get hut in the store. Make snide observations and then check their name when the pull out their credit card, to see how much more money they have. Strange that for someone who was running the family into poverty but was going to be the World’s Next GOD, they never finished their degree. They just got a professional degree and they’re working in a Blockbuster video along side people who are physically 16, 17, 18, 19, not just mentally.

Yes, the person who made fun of me for working at Arby’s when I was 16, is in their 40′s today, and they still work as a drone in a Blockbuster store, where they have been since 2003. It’s great, right? I got a PhD while they were on the web making me look bad. I ignored them. They lost their jobs, lost their schooling, their spouses, and here I am, independently working on my own research, research that was unique to the University before I came here. I have been doing work like that since I was thirty. My learning days and test taking seminars are over. I teach at those now. I have three to go and teach at, get my complimentary meals, snacks, and I can leave without cleaning up. Perfect.

Not as perfect as being on the Golden Coast, but I’ll take it. *all smiles*

After hooking up the new cable box, and this new one doesn’t fit my wireless cable router, so I had to snake a ten-foot fiber optic cable across the bedroom floor that I know is going to end up as a dog chew toy or stepped/stomped on, and broken, I then had the pleasure of setting up the universal remote and setting then figuring out the codes for the TV and DVD recorder. All that on top of finally being approved for a doctor appointment that I am going to have to go to next week before our anniversary. I’m slightly happy about the appointment because attempting to switch doctors has proven to do nothing more than waste my money.

Taking my bath tonight, Chloe came into the bathroom to pee, and saw me snoozing in the tub. She didn’t know one could sleep in the bathtub! She asked me what I was doing, and when I said I was trying to relax, she unscrewed the top off the Mr. Bubble bubble bath and dumped about half the bottle in the bath water, then turned on the faucet! What?! “Feel better? Daddy always says that bubble baths make him feel better,” she said. At first I  was in slight shock, but then as the aloe began to penetrate my skin and the bubbles began to feather out over the water, I started to feel less tense. “This is good. Thanks!” I said. Chloe giggled. “I wish I could relax this well in bed,” I commented. “Okay then! I’ll go put the rest of this in you bed’s water!” she said. I snapped back to reality. “Chloe! No!” I called, as I attempted to jump out of the water. I slipped on the floor of the tub and banged my chin on the tub side. I had to crawl out of the tub, and then slipped on the linoleum bathroom floor. Another bang to my face. I managed to capture Nurse Chloe in the hallway and take the bubble bath away from her. I somehow made it back to the bathroom to wash the bits of dog hair and other strange objects from my body, without my father in law getting a peep show of my naked body in the bathroom or the hallway.

Chloe’s heart was in the right place. I wish I could have finished that bubble bath. Just drying myself off was pleasurable. The silent little snaps of the bubbles as they popped, drying them onto my skin, still warm from the water. I think I need a bubble bath night every week. That should be my new thing. Just for relaxation. A time to get away from life for a while. I can’t do it often, but I can try to do it at least once a week. I deserve some me time, right?

Dennis says that I have an addiction. That I keep buying these scented candles to live in a fantasy world. *laughs* Do I? Am I? He’s been home four days and already we’re butting heads. Or are we?

I picked out the daisy scented candle because it really smells like a field of daisies. The green, plantish smell that you can only get from a real flower. I loved it. I bought it yesterday while I was out getting his father presents for his birthday today. I have been battling a deep depression. One where the world is closing in on me, and all that I want to do is lie in bed and sob. I cannot find rhymes or reasons to continue anything, and I am not even working on my Paper Project journal or my work. The scent of spring made me feel somewhat better. I think I need some deeper help. The toughest psychotropic drugs there are, and take a few to stop the emotional pain caused by my mother. I watched an old tape of my mum in London, at a time when I was still with her, and I felt increasingly upset that I was not with her.

Dennis didn’t seem to understand my sadness. “Your mom is in the other room,” he told me. Is she? Oh, you mean the monster who bullies me to spend outrageous amounts of money on her and then calls me vulgar, filthy names? Who lies about me to her relatives? Dennis doesn’t understand how or why my mother’s family members and friends hate me before they even know who I am. That’s easy: She tells them ridiculous lies about me, for weeks, months, sometimes years, before I ever get to know them, takes situations out of context, and I have enemies that I don’t even know exist.

Such is life.

Oh, and I’m back on a cancer treatment program. So much for bone marrow transplants, huh?

As you were.

The hallway in radiology:

My ID bracelet:

They screwed up my birthday:

Inside the x-ray room:

The meds I was given for the broken toe and the MRSA that is raging through my blood stream:

The broken toe.
15 minutes after it was broken, on Saturday the 24th:

The morning of September 26th, when I snuck out to the clinic:

The walking shoe cast they gave me:

Domestic violence for seeing a doctor:

The perp of the violence poured bleach on Dennis’ antique quilt when they found out I had gone to a clinic to get my toe checked out. So I had to put this on the bed when I made it yesterday:

It looks like a Pepto Bismol bottle threw up on the bed. Dennis is not going to like that.

Whether it’s money, merchandise, or “favors” to house her criminally insane friends for the weekend, she throws insults at me and berates me. That used to work, when I was about six years old. She got a kick out of it. She would threaten to throw me out in the elements, make me, a little child, beg her for mercy to let me stay there. There were times when she would push me out the front door, and because I would scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear and turn their heads, she would snatch me back inside the house, before they called child services. But I never had that luxury. I never had the privilege of being in a foster home, away from that physical, mental, and emotional torture and abuse. I constantly think about it when I am alone, on nights like this, when I am (still!) burning DVDs for her because she has lost her copy that I sent her months ago, and will most likely end up on her floor, being kicked around the garbage strewn around her bedroom floor, destined to be scratched beyond playable repair (even though I give her cases, sleeves and ziplock baggies to store the DVDs in), which will only cause her to wake me up again in the middle of the night to make her a new disc. Good thing I have archived copies of these movies. Or is it?

With that, I am going to get a small snack, a drink, and some more opioids. At least I can sleep through whatever demons come scratching on my door tonight. That’s the purpose of taking the medicine anymore. I have pain, but it’s not physical, and the psychologists, therapists, and psychoanalysis professionals can’t fix me. Failure is a good word to describe me, even if I was not the first to think it, I am certainly the first to admit to it.

My mother left me a message that she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. This is partially because I asked her Monday night to stop calling me every hour or so and waking me up. I told her to stop around 2am because I had to get to sleep for work the next day. She said she was never going to call me again. She wasn’t even calling about anything important, just giddy over the fact that Scott (my brother) is going to send her a large lump sum of money, and she wanted to tell me what a model child to her he was. Great. That’s fine. I’m scum. I get it. Now can I sleep? But no. She’d call back in an hour or two to tell me something else, all happy and excited, or to ask me something, still happy and excited. Apparently, today, he sent her more money, and suddenly he’s her favourite child in the world. No one else can top him, because he gave her money. The four years of free nursing service that I gave her means nothing. She can’t spend that on pieces to make her friends jealous. Of course I don’t understand her need to show off to her friends. My husband naturally buys me expensive things that I just happen to have and I can show off so naturally. Really? That’s what I’ve been doing all along? Showing off? Of course! My computer, my jewelry, my clothes, my stationary, my car, my TV, DVR, anything and everything in the house. I tried to reason with her Monday night and tell her that we didn’t really spend a lot of money; we bought what we wanted the first time, none of that “let’s buy the cheapest, sleeziest thing in the store to hold us over till we can afford the one we really want” attitude. We simply went without until we got what we wanted. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But I can’t tell her that. She started hitting me up for money days ago, but I refused, so she went to her sons for money. Scott took the bait, apparently, and now he is her favourite. As I have said before, I can’t afford my mother’s love and respect. I have to pay my own way in life, as well as take care of my children. There’s no way that I am going to buy my mother at the same time. She had to buy her mother, at the expense of her children, and I’ll be damned if I am going to make the same mistake.

I worried about the impending doctor’s visit. They are going to draw blood and do an ultra sound. If I’m feeling something moving about inside me, they want to see if it’s a baby or gas, or something gone horribly wrong. I am at a loss for words, because I never expected that I would have to go through this again. I am eating very little because eating makes me sick. That is one of the things that I experienced with all three of my past pregnancies. Especially the last one. I suffered from morning/mid-day/evening/night sickness from the instant I was pregnant, until the day I went in to have the babies. The tiredness is something I don’t actually remember, but I am sure that I experienced it while I was pregnant. I just want to sleep. I got out of bed at 8am to get the family up and ready, and then I went right back to bed, and slept for over twelve hours. I have been up a little over an hour, and I want to go back to sleep already. I feel as if I didn’t get any sleep at all. What in the world is wearing me out so much? Being pregnant isn’t this exhausting. Can you see why this whole thing has scared me?

I still haven’t told Dennis what is going on. I am always sleeping when he calls, and I have the phone either turned off or on vibrate so I can sleep peacefully. But I still don’t feel very rested. Right now, my eyelids are heavily drooping. I don’t know how Dennis is going to react to all of this. I know he will want to come home, and I just can’t do that to him. Not with him coming home in a little over a month anyway, and then the anniversary surprise. I know he would want to cancel the surprise if he thought I was getting sick again, and I really want to see what he has planned. Where ever it is, he bought us plane tickets there. I found the $900 charge on our cards today. There was no mention to where the tickets were to, so I am excited to be going. There were hotel reservations, too, but like the plain tickets, they didn’t reveal where we were going to be staying at all. I guess he knew that I could easily check the credit cards, so he had the charges hidden. I’m still like that. I even search the house for my Christmas presents at Christmas time. I guess that’s a good sign that my spirit has not yet been broken. *happy*

Is it possible to be both happy and scared at the same time? Because that is how I feel right now. I know there is something big going to happen in the next few days. I can feel it. I just don’t know what it’s going to be, other than life-changing big, and it scares me a little. At the same time, I am happy and excited for the change. If that makes sense.

I am going to pray again tonight. It eases my mind a little when I pray, as if things are really going to calm down and everything is going to be alright.

And now I must get to bed, because I typed that last paragraph with my eyes closed. I am literally falling asleep at this computer!

This is going to be one of the hardest posts I have ever written, but it shouldn’t be cooped up inside me. There is a good possibility that I am wrong and that I am over-reacting. But there is an even better chance that I am not wrong and I will be facing one of the hardest things I will ever have to go through.

Late Saturday night/early Sunday morning, I had had some drinks, was feeling giggly, and cleaned out some of my drawers in the bathroom. It’s easier for me to throw away clutter and junk that I would otherwise keep, for sentimental reasons and nothing more. Like my collection of empty containers in the bathroom. Yes, at one time, I had the first bottle of contact lens solution that I ever used. It has since been tossed out on my tipsy late-night cleaning. Which brings me to Saturday night. I found the box of pregnancy tests that my nephew and his friends bought back in 2007, as a joke, and had him take a pregnancy test. When the results came back positive, we got him screened further only to find out that his cancer had spread to his testicles. There were two more tests in the box. Giggly, and shrugging it off as “no way”, I went ahead and took out a test, hiked up my night shirt, hovered over the toilet, and peed on the stick. Shock of all shocks when it came back positive.

Or was that a shocker?

To the untrained eye, yes it was. On October 31, 2007, I had a hysterectomy when I had my boys. So that would make the test defective, right? Possibly. There are many other things that a pregnancy test can detect other than pregnancy. In men it can detect testicle cancer, if the test comes back positive. In women, it can detect hormone imbalances. In a woman who has had a hysterectomy and sex in the last four to six months, it can detect a tubal pregnancy.

Like a dip shit, I posted to my Twitter and people were congratulating me all weekend. I felt guilty Sunday morning and a little annoyed since more than one person who congratulated me also sent me “Get Well Soon!” and “It’s A Pair of Boys!” cards to me when I had the hysterectomy. I’d say that since I opened up my Twitter just two months after the hysterectomy, and that I had made it public in my journal, where many of my Twitter friends came from, they either just weren’t paying attention, or I really do blend in with all the other bricks in the wall.

Pregnancy would explain the vomiting within a few minutes of waking up, the frequent urination that woke me up in the middle of the night more than one night in a row, the constant nausea, the getting sick to my stomach when I think of certain foods, the annoying and constant hiccuping that is only stopped with quick gulps of water.

The pregnancy tests were expired, but I know there was a small chance something was wrong, and I have been on strike from seeing my regular doctor for about a year, so I was not getting my regular check ups. After dropping Chloe off at school this morning, and making my way to work, I sat in my car for a few minutes, and then called my doctor. I told the receptionist what had been going on, minus the drinking and house cleaning, and she said that I would need both a blood test and ultra sound, to make sure it was pregnancy and not just a hormone imbalance. I agreed to a Friday appointment, hung up, and went inside to get my schedule for the work week. Luckily, I am not scheduled to work Fridays, and I seemed to relax a little.

Until tonight.

While I was undressing for my bath, I thought I felt something flutter in my stomach. It wasn’t gas, but almost like a baby shifted. I played it off as my imagination running away with me. After the bath, I glanced down at what very well could be a little person growing inside of me. A little person who would not make it past the weekend, at best. For the first time in a long time, I wished that I could get pregnant. I wished I could be able to carry the pregnancy to term. There were so many things I wished I could do then, that I teared up. I couldn’t look at myself anymore. I turned away from the mirror to dry off and get dressed for bed. For me, a tubal pregnancy wouldn’t end in a live birth, with all of three out of millions of tubals recorded in medical history, and I believe that life begins at conception. I believe a life inside someone, even if that life is not medically normal, is still a life and when it is ended, a life is ended. I then thought of PoRo and how she wanted to live more than anything. I was silently crying, tears falling heavily from my eyes and into the bathroom rug, as I dried off my feet.

Ending a pregnancy, even if it were to be ended on its own, is hard for me. I have gone through this before, and just as before, my doctor will not remove the ovary responsible for the egg releases that continue to become fertilized. It’s not right. Not morally, not physically, not emotionally. My doctor continues to tell me that he cannot have the ovary removed until I am forty years old. That’s another nine years I have to be wary of when I have sex.

I put off posting about this because I have told no one, face to face, or even over the phone. Dennis has yet to know. I don’t know how I could keep something like this from him, but here I am. I know it’s wrong to keep secrets like this, and I felt horrible that I was making a decision like this while he was away, but the selfish part of me keeps saying termination would be the best path to take so my little ones with me, who made it through birth, could survive as well. As the kids get older and discover what has happened, I dread the questions this will raise in them. The “Whys” and “How Comes” do not settle well with this. How do you explain that you terminated a child, disowned and gave up on it, on a real, living person, before you ever met them? Before you were even examined to confirm that you were healthy enough to carry the baby to full term? That same part of me tells me that after what I have gone through this spring and summer, it would be best to terminate, if for no other reason than the date of conception must have beed during or shortly after my transplant. I was exposed to things that no expecting mother should be exposed to, and who’s to say the baby would turn out healthy? I am simply torn in deciding what to do, and I know that no matter what I do, there will always be the “what ifs” that will haunt me for a long time afterwards.

As I sat on the edge of my bed in my clean, soft jammies, I did something I have not done in a long time. I prayed. I prayed to not be pregnant. I have never prayed for anything like that before, feeling that I would just be wasting God’s time by praying when all I have ever needed I could make due myself, but that time. That time, I did not give up my space to a teenager coming home from the prom or a frat night. That time, I took the time slot. I prayed to not be pregnant, for the test to be faulty, and for a peaceful nine years, reproductive-wise. I told God I was sorry for all that I had done in failing as a parent, but there was no need to punish me further with a tubal. I asked for forgiveness, with the promise to follow up by seeing a priest Wednesday night.

I hope my prayers were heard.

Richard said that I would be needing a break come Labour Day, and guess what? He’s absolutely right! I am already looking forward to a day off, and I haven’t even begun work yet!

This is just the stuff for me. There’s also my mother harping at me to finish her DVDs. Oh man, am I ever sick of burning DVDs! I hope that I never, ever have to make another DVD on this computer again! It’s just that frustrating for me! Especially when she brings them back and says that she didn’t mean this movie or that movie, but another movie, that will take another two-to-three hours to download, then encode, and then write, and that’s if the drive doesn’t give me a load of shit because it’s out of memory or whatever computers complain about when they spit out perfectly good DVDs and refuse to write them.

So, with that in mind…

I am not ignoring anyone.
I am not dead.
I am just very stressed, sick, and nervous about tomorrow.

I cannot even fall back on my meds, because I don’t have any. But I will get through this. I know I will! I just have to take it one task at a time.