Category Archives: fibromyalgia
(NOTE: This entire post just got deleted. I’m rewriting from memory.)
I wrote a whole long post about how I came to have what some might call a twisted sense of humor.
It was all erased.
My dad was going in for surgery on some herniated discs in his neck. There was a 50% chance he’d die on the operating table. But when his parents and brother went for lunch, my dad launched into a hysterically funny story about a hot female nurse shaving him “down there” as he would need a catheter after the operation — and how cold the room was.(look up the Seinfeld episode about Cold Water if you have questions.)
Then he pointed to a huge fruit basket he had received. “What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t eat solids for a month!”
When our family came back from lunch, my dad was smiling and I was hysterical laughing. He was literally facing Death but he had made me laugh.
As he was wheeled into surgery, everyone said how much they loved him. I whispered, “When you wake up, you’ll have a catheter.” My dad smiled, “I already do.”
He came out of surgery as well as could be expected, but I learned a valuable lesson:
As I grew older and amassed my own laundry list of illnesses and diseases, I remembered that lesson. Life can suck but if you are reading this, you are better off than most of the people in the world. If you have a roof over your head, food (or money to buy food), and a change of clothing, you’re better off than 70-90% of the world. (Sorry, but I couldn’t find an exact number to quote.)
I’ve been told I have a twisted sense of humor. But…
Here are a few links:
Laughter truly is the best medicine.
When I was in high school there was a girl I couldn’t talk to because she was so cool. We became Facebook friends and, I thought Real Friends. We supported each other and sent messages of encouragement. Recently, I made a joke to my ex- high school/ college boyfriend, based on this joke:
An elderly widowed gentleman in a nursing home became very friendly with an elderly lady. He told her his former wife used to hold his penis every night to help him go to sleep. The elderly lady decided to do this for her new male friend every night for a week. Each night he fell soundly asleep. The next week the gentleman told the lady that he was sorry but he had found a new partner. She was very upset and asked him, “What does she have that I don’t have?” He replied, “Parkinsons.”
The Cool friend replied:
NOBODY WITH ILLNESSES AND/OR DISABILITIES SHOULD EVER BE MAKING FUN OF. IT IS VERY CRUEL AND IGNORANT. HOW DARE YOU.
[i]t’s how my family deals with us all having chronic pain / illnesses. Mostly my dad and me when we were talking.
It’s from a joke about a couple who meet in an old folks home. One day the woman sees the man with another woman and calls him over.
“We’ve shared meals, we’ve slept in the same bed, I even put my hand on your penis! What does she have that I don’t?”
He answers with a grin, “Parkinson’s.”
If I couldn’t laugh I’d curl in a ball and cry. Sometimes the pain is so intense I’m laughing and crying.
When the muscle spasms started, it would scare my son to see me jerking around or flipping off the bed or, one time while making dinner, a knife flew out of my hand across the room. If I let my son know how much pain I was really in, it would’ve scared him and he would’ve worried more.
So I’d laugh.
Often hysterically, like a crazy person, but then he [my son] could laugh, too, instead of being scared all the time.
I hope you understand — I’m not making fun of anyone. When Michael J Fox was diagnosed an article said it was from head injuries playing hockey as a kid. I used to get my head slammed into walls daily by my biological mother so I was terrified I’d get early onset Parkinson’s.
It’s the best coping mechanism I have since my son is with me a lot. If I didn’t have a kid, well, I wouldn’t be using prescription pain killers, that’s for sure! I’ve been out of Lyrica for a week now & am praying I can get it today. Mixed with the heat… It’s been rough. And my son has to watch.
And then after finding out she had unfriended me on Facebook and Instagram, I wrote:
I see you unfriended me on Facebook and I had to request to follow your instagram account (again; As we were following each other).
If you’re that bothered by me making a joke, I wish you’d text me or messagenger me or dm me privately to discuss this.
I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve noticed my sarcastic / laugh-instead-of-cry approach to living with chronic pain. Even with my son, if I had to take a cold hard look at my future — in a wheelchair, in constant pain, completely alone — I’d probably be suicidal. It’s one thing to not mind being alone but to deal with never being held as I sleep, never being kissed again, etc… Once my son is grown, I will have to deal with such self-pity. But until then, I need sarcasm and humour or else I might as well pack it in. I’m sorry if I offended you but it’s how I cope.
And now I’m [re]writing this. Hoping she will see; hoping she will understand.
I’m very sorry that you misunderstood my comment on Facebook. If you don’t wish to talk to me, I will respect your wishes.
Please understand, I would never “make fun” of any illness or disease; I do use humor to deal with my situation and if that means we cannot be friends, I understand. I would like to hear your reasoning, but I wish you health and happiness no matter what you choose.
I freely admit that my mind goes to self-pity-mode a lot. It depresses me that after I have raised my son I will be, literally, alone. It upsets me that I will never be kissed or held by a lover again. But I need to stay strong for my son and for myself. Please do not mistake my joking as “making fun of” or “laughing at” others.
Con mucho amor,
Aka, D. K. Stevens
I woke up this morning as I always do — in pain so harsh it makes it hard to breathe. I have three herniated discs in my lower spine. Fibromyalgia. My knees have been locking up on me and I’ve had a pinched nerve that has rendered my left arm almost useless for over five weeks.
My son is in my bed, which happens more often than not. ACS (Children’s Services in NYC) has given him PTSD and the nightmares are bad enough that he comes into my room in the middle of the night.
My middle cat, Nikita, is having a bloody discharge, sometimes cloudy yellow, that is leaving stains everywhere. Worse, I can’t afford a vet. I tried all of the free vet services, and none were able to help. I’m going to have to throw out what little self-esteem and pride I have and try GoFundMe.
My favorite game, Titan Empires, has had an update. I’ve got two accounts and had just started one for my son. This new update resulted in the game crashing during three attacks yesterday. Today, it crashed during a war attack for my main character, leaving me with 0% on an easy 100% win. My son’s account took the Titanite (required to upgrade Titans, who help with your attacks) for an upgrade three times but didn’t do the upgrade.
We’d missed lunch with my grandmother, who is my best friend and always has been, along with being a mom and a grandmother, on Monday due to my son throwing up and having an upset stomach. The lunch was to be a one-week – early Happy 88th Birthday with my aunt and uncle who don’t yet live full-time in NYC and we’re leaving the next day. Tuesday we’d gone to the New York Aquarium, and today, Wednesday, my son had his stomach ache back.
We had a home visit and we’ll have another Friday morning, despite everyone agreeing that being crippled and asking for help was not child abuse or neglect. The damage to my son, my family, and to me has already been done. Lesson learned: never ask Children’s Services for help because you’re physically unable to clean. They did nothing for years despite overwhelming proof that my son was being abused by his father and father’s girlfriends. Why would they help a non-abusive, non-neglectful parent?
As I went to the bathroom for a cigarette, I thought back to when I was first diagnosed with cervical cancer. I was 20, but my birth date had been written wrong and I was sent to the children’s cancer ward.
I sat on an uncomfortable chair and tried not to look around. The parents with that hollow look, watching their child die and not being able to do anything about it. The thing about losing a child is that it goes against Nature. Parents are supposed to die first and while it’s sad, it’s the Natural Order of things.
Then She sat next to me. It bothers me that I can’t remember Her name, but I will always remember Her.
“Hi,” She said, this little girl attached to a metal pole with wheels. The pole held bags of liquid which were attached to tubes leading to needles in her veins.
I nodded a hello, gripping my latest test results in my sweaty hands.
“You’re new,” She observed.
She coughed a little laugh. She was barely four feet tall, and probably didn’t weigh more than 50 pounds. Her hair was gone, but She wasn’t wearing a scarf around Her head.
“I know everyone here. You’re too young to be a parent, you don’t have that Family Member Look, so you must be a patient.” She went on to tell me that She was eight and the couple nervously watching us were Her parents. Her brother was somewhere, wandering the hospital hallways.
Her parents came over. “Sweetie, don’t you think you should get back in bed?” Her mom asked.
“Come on, I’ll carry you,” Her father offered. They looked like they hadn’t slept in years.
She bargained for five minutes with me. They returned to their seats, never taking their eyes off of Her. Or me.
“No offense, but you do look tired,” I said quietly.
She gave a small smile. “I’m exhausted all the time. But you look like you could use a friend.”
The next few minutes flew by. She told me how She was so tired, that She’d been in and out of hospitals since two years of age. She said She held on for Her parents, who wouldn’t be able to handle Her being gone. How Her brother loved and hated Her: loved Her when She was healthy; hated Her for being sick, taking all of their parents attention, then hated himself. She spoke like someone years older than eight. Every Doctor or Nurse who walked by received a greeting by name. But as She spoke She seemed to lose substance until a nurse came over and said She needed to go back to Her room.
“Chemo,” She said, rolling her eyes. “I wish they’d stop.”
“Now, honey, you don’t mean that,” said the nurse, helping Her up and taking hold of the metal pole.
“You’ll be okay,” were Her parting words.
I had to turn in my seat to watch Her walk back to Her room. She was insisting on walking by Herself.
The sun was bright thru the hospital windows and while it might have been a trick of the light, to this day I swear She had a beautiful pair of white feathered Angel wings on Her back.
I blinked, and She was gone.
I was called in soon after, the age mistake corrected, and I was sent to the adult cancer ward.
Two days later I went back to the children’s ward. Her parents weren’t there. I asked some of the Doctors and Nurses if I could visit Her and received confused looks. Nobody had been there with that name recently. Thinking I’d gotten Her name wrong, I described Her. Unfortunately, that description fit most of the children there.
I left, hearing Her say, “You’ll be okay.”
And I was.
A few years of cancer treatments and numerous hospital visits and I got a clean bill of health. My eyebrows will never grow in properly, my hair is very thin, and I have a desperate fear of feeling my bones after having lost so much weight. I also proved the doctors wrong by giving birth to my son — I had been told I would never have children.
So, I may have left the Nair on my tender areas a bit too long, and I may be in constant physical pain, and my son may be scarred for life by Children’s Services, and my cat may be sick. But I’ll get the money for the vet. I’ll put my son back together. My tender area will heal up. And maybe Titans will fix the bugs or maybe I’ll find a new game.
We’ll see my grandmother for her 88th Birthday this Monday. And we’ll get thru the home visit and hopefully won’t have to have someone court ordered to stay in our house every day (again).
Either way, as an Angel once told me, “You’ll be okay.”
I will. I’ll be okay.
I’ll be asking my doctor about this next week. Thank you, M.M. for the link.
I remember when I came up with that nickname, “Beloved”. It was from a book by Robin Hobb. The Fool, who had been in many of her books, sometimes as a male, sometimes female, had been captured and was being slowly tortured in a frozen wasteland. He had no hope if being saved. As his skin was being slowly stripped away from his back, he was delerious with pain, and he began mumbling, “Beloved, My Beloved, ” or something like that. And even tho we’d just found each other after a decade, I knew that if I was in the same situation, I’d be calling out your name. Beloved. My Beloved. Because it has always been you.
Read the rest of this entry
He showed up early for his weekend with your son.
You’d told him to call from the train. That way you could have your son dressed. That way, he wouldn’t see the crying, the begging, the pleading of your son not to have to go with his dad.
You know what is happening there. You see the bruises on your son. You take photos before and after.
You have your own bruises, now healed, and missing teeth, and carvings. But the court insists on the visitation, so you lie, you lie so well to convince your son, to convince yourself, that it’s not so bad and when he gets older, he’ll see, his dad will realize how wrong he was and he’ll be so sorry. So very sorry for what he’s done.
This is what it’s like to have your son abused by his father.
Hell, his father has bragged about beating your son; how he lets his girlfriends beat on your son.
His dad doesn’t even want custody. When you asked what he would o if you gave him full custody, he shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Give him to my mom?”
You ask why he’s dragging you thru court, wasting tax payer dollars, and he laughs. He tells you that he’s hurting your son as revenge because you didn’t love him enough. And your son gets the worst of it.
You tell Childrens Services, your lawyer, the court. But two liars are more believable than one telling the truth. They say you are jealous; that you are upset about the “break up”. Explaining that you ended it, and never loved him in the first place falls on deaf ears. And now he’s here early.
This is what it’s like to be scared of your son’s father.
You stand in the doorway and urge your son to hurry. Your son is 6, and is crying he doesn’t want to go. In the hallway, his father hears and, maybe, for the first time…
You hear, from behind you, “Fuck this,” and then an arm around your throat pulling you down, down, it’s all so slow, and then the *crack* as your lower spine hits his knee and there’s this blast of pain your spine is on fire and then everything goes black.
This is what it’s like to be crippled by your son’s dad, in front of your son.
When you come to, you are lying in the public hallway of your building with your son standing at your head as if he is blocking you, protecting you, and he is screaming, “I hate you! I hate you, dad! I never want to see you again!” And his dad is standing there, silent, holding up his phone to record the entire thing.
You know you have to get up but your whole body is Pain and there is a terrifying numbness below your waist but you need to get up you have to protect your son so you roll onto your stomach and fight your body and force yourself to stand and you pull your child into the apartment and you call the police.
The police come and cuff both you and your son’s father and they bring you downstairs and your baby, your only child is clinging to you, shaking and crying and they crowd all of you into the same small elevator and your body is trying to collapse under you but you must stand, you have to stay up for your son.
Downstairs they let you sit on a stoop, with your son, while they watch the video. The sound is muffled, but you hear the crack, the snap that was your spine.
As they put him in the police car, he tells you, “Your lucky I’m so nice or else I’d have them arrest you, too.” Three police officers laugh. They laugh so hard, two have to lean on the hood of the car. They remove your cuffs, and your son begins crying anew when he sees the marks they’ve left and you comfort him, and you watch your arms hold your son, and rub his back, but there’s this strange mix of pain and numbness.
This is what it’s like to lie to your son.
You now have your son for the weekend, so you refuse the ambulance that is scaring your son, everything is scaring him and you want to tell him that you can’t hold him up, you can barely hold yourself up, but you are his Mother and you hold him even as you are barely holding on yourself.
You tell your son you’re fine, that it was nothing, that the sound he heard was something, anything, but not your spine. You suggest a “Lazy Weekend” in bed so that your son won’t notice that you can barely walk, that you have to lean on furniture, hold onto the walls. But he sees, and he knows.
You get tests done: CT scans, MRI’s, electric pulses that check for nerve damage.
You are told you now have three herniated and two bulging discs in your lower spine. The pain will be a constant companion to your recently diagnosed Fibromyalgia.
You bring the medical and police records to court. But there is no restraining order issued. No end to the visitation. Instead, the court decides your son should be picked up by his father st school giving him an extra three hours.
Your son regresses, again.
This is what it’s like when the court treats all cases the same.
This is what it’s like for many single parents.
If you have been or currently are in an abusive relationship, get help. My biggest fear growing up was being in a homeless shelter. But I did it. So can you. Remember: the people in a Domestic Violence shelter are there to help you; if I’d listened to them, and cut off contact with my son’s dad back then, I wouldn’t be permanently crippled and, most importantly, my son would never have been so horribly abused.
If you’re in NYC, contact Safe Horizon.. Nationally, you can call the National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
YOU ARE NOT ALONE!!
After dealing with my son’s dad, his last three girlfriends (one of whom sent 350+ in 24 hours from different email addresses–one using my cats name. Do the math. Yeah.), a person who once lied to sound more like me but when called on her rewriting history decided to try and insult me (13 texts when I awoke. Because I’d blocked her on Facebook. Thirteen. Couldn’t make it up if I tried.), etc, I have decided to write a short piece on How To Properly Insult Someone. I.e., How To Insult Someone So You Are Not Laughed At / Made To Look Like An Idiot.
RULE #1: Stick to the truth. The truth hurts.
RULE #2: If the person is better looking than you, do not attempt to insult their looks.
An example from my most recent hater, “Nobody likes a fat girl with crooked eyebrows”. (*snort* *giggle*)
This is coming from a girl whose eyes are close set (a sign of lower intelligence) and a huge man-jaw, made ever more prominent by her latest eating disorder.
First off, I chose to get fat so guys wouldn’t hit on me. Yet they still do. A lot. So that was a miss.
As for my eyebrows? I didn’t care if they were even or not.
As for why they are penciled on? See…
RULE #3: Find Our The Insultees Medical History So You Don’t Look Stupid
I had cervical cancer my last year of college, plus a few more years. My brows grow in patchy. So I pencil them. If I care, I make them even. If I’m meeting someone who had one friend til I introduced her to mine, I don’t care if they’re even.
This latest frenemy thinks I’m living in the past. If someone refers to the past, but won’t go into detail, it’s probably so you won’t be hurt…
RULE #4: If You’re Trying To Insult Someone Who Refers to Part, But Not All Of The Past– They Are Trying To Spare You The Truth
“You’re obsessed with the past because it was the best time of your life…I’ve blocked you from my iPhone.” (Recent frenemy, once again showing lower intelligence.)
First, you’re showing your lack of intelligence by having an iPhone. The most basic research will show you the many problems with iPhone. Androids are infinitely better.
Secondly, no, my life with my son, now, is the best. HOWEVER, what I didn’t want you to know is how they were laughing AT you, not WITH you.
We would try and schedule hang-outs without you because someone would have to take care of you (tho we all knew you had to be faking it. But since everyone else was above average intelligence, we weren’t sure if things affected one if average intelligence– you– differently.)
One of the many jokes about you was if I’d kissed a boy, he’d better not get drunk around you because you had a thing for my leftovers but they had to be drunk to do you.
When we met for lunch and you said you didn’t meet up with a certain someone because you’d go at it– how many times in the first few years was he sober during the act? Did he ever take you on a date like he did with me? (BTW, I know the answers, from him. No, he’s never been sober. No date; wouldn’t want to be alone in public. Still embarrassed. Wouldn’t hook up now unless drunk and horny and first one there because you’d apparently do anyone I’ve been with.)
RULE #5: Know What You’re Talking About
Back to the frenemy. I didn’t read thru all thirteen texts but from what I read:
— you call me crazy. (Lol.) I have been in therapy, by choice, with various therapists over the years, but none for less than three years with one visit a week. All of them have declared me sane. Quite sane.
Can you say the same? (Nope.)
When I blocked you on Facebook, you texted me to tell me I was blocked from your iPhone. Yet when I used a friends phone to text you back, lmao, you said, lol, that I was crazy for using another method of response.
What does that make you for texting me when blocked on Facebook??? Lmao.
Those close set eyes give away your average IQ (nothing to be ashamed of. Someone has to be average.), so I’ll explain:
According to YOUR logic, if one is blocked on one medium and uses another, they are crazy. Like when you were blocked on Facebook and texted me, you were… (Psst. The answer is “crazy”.)
Update: despite being told I was using a friend’s phone, frenemy texted him. Something about how ” [I] win, she’s going back to [her] life! Thin”.
He called to tell me of the text and asked if “thin” was all she had and could text and tell her what a pathetic nutjob she is.
I told him not to. If thin is all she has, she is more sad and pathetic than we all thought (my friends and I).
Anyone can lose weight. I’ve been thin. I’ve been so thin that one could see the outline of my internal organs. (Tho I owe that to the cancer.)
And as fluffy as I may be, on my worst day, in my attention getting jeans, T, and sneakers, with uneven eyebrows, I still LOOK BETTER THAN YOU.
You see, your hatred and jealousy make you ugly on the inside and it shows on the outside.
Yet I don’t hate you. I pity you. If thin is all you’ve got– not your son or husband, etc– I feel bad for you.
— you made some comment about getting a job and people with fibromyalgia having jobs blah blah blah. First off, nobody with fibromyalgia has JUST fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgia ALWAYS comes with another illness.
So, let’s see, first of all, fibromyalgia is not all that is physically wrong with me. But the other things — herniated discs and such — are none of your concern.
Let’s just say with my physical disabilities, I have been unable to find a job. So I created one: I work as a freelance / ghostwriter.
Which brings me to your husband. You said he couldn’t find a job. He has no disabilities. Where’s the problem?
Oh, wait: solution.
Marry a girl with low self-esteem. Have her work to support husband AND his kids from previous relationship.
Give Low Self-esteem a kid.
Send Low Self-esteem out to work and support husband, kid with husband, and husbands kids from previous relationship.
Problem solved for husband.
— from an ex of my son’s dad: ” it must suck knowing that your dad hates you.”
(Odd. Then why does he make a point of seeing my son and I once a week? And email more often?)
“It must suck knowing that your mom hates you.”
(Hmmm… Which “mom”? Biological? The ex-stepmother who was more a mom than my own, whom I’m still in touch with despite being married to a man– not my dad–for the past two decades?)
Put those two together and you get someone throwing darts with a blindfold. (Oddly, her eyes were close together, too.)
— I cut and pasted the thirteen texts sent by frenemy so friends could read and comment. Apparently, frenemy says something about my being an ” attention whore”. Well, that really gave me a good laugh. But you know what? She must be right since it took her 6+ years to get thru a city college and she has a masters in sociology, the easiest of all studies.
But she was referring to me. The attention whore who didn’t leave her apartment for two years. The girl who got fat so guys wouldn’t hit on her. The girl who has worn jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers or Doc Martins her whole life.
Methinks someone is jealous that the girl in the last paragraph received more compliments than the frenemy in her ill-fitting dress the time they hung out.
It must suck to starve yourself, get all dressed up, and still have everyone look at the “fat chick with uneven eyebrows” and have nobody look at you.
I see where the hate comes from.
— from all three of my son’s dad’s girlfriends: “he doesn’t want you. He wants me.” Oh, please. Take him. I’ll PAY you to take him!
Each girlfriend was the same.
They’d say he doesn’t want me, move on.
I’d say, “Take him, with my apologies. I don’t want him.”
They’d say, “Then why are you all over him? He tells me everything.”
And I’d say, “So, he’s the one telling you this. But all the calls on his phone are TO me. You’re in front of MY place; I’ve NEVER been to yours.” Etc.
He’d come to me with a choice: have sex or my /our son comes home with cuts and bruises. I said, “Neither. Have sex with your girlfriend. Be a dad to your son. And tell your girl to leave me alone.”
And the truth would come out: he wanted two girls to physically fight over him. And these dumb girls would fall for it, hook, line, and sinker.
I’m sure my frenemy has given me more rules, but, honestly, I have better things to do than read all of her texts. I’ll put them in the folder with the ex-girlfriend who sent 350+ emails in 24 hours a few years ago. One day I’ll read them.
All I know is Frenemy keeps emailing me and I’ve told her three times: you are harassing me. If you contact me again, I will get a restraining order.
Yup, after all this time, she’s still obsessed with me.
Sadly, even after reading this blog, the only insult she could come up with is, “Your blog with zero comments.” Lol. As if all comments are public. And, even if I had zero comments, who cares??? I don’t. Apparently she does. I guess she wants her idol to have more public comments…
Either way, the lesson you should take from this is:
RULE #1: Stick To The Truth. The Truth Hurts.
P.S. Frenemy: you know who and what you are.
When diagnosed with cancer, I removed all negativity from my life.
As I’ve told the girlfriends of my son’s dad: do not contact me again or there will be a restraining order against you.
So MM thinks we should be just friends because he’s doing it for me. He says he’s worried about my feelings and that I may harbor some hope of something in future.
He’s good but not that good! Hell with a girl I can get off in two seconds bit with guys… well OK it is rare to find a guy who gets me off. Almost every time. And makes up for the times he doesn’t.
Ok. So he is good. But I’ve told him I’d never be his gf again. I’ve had guys end it& they always come back &I always say no. It’s a matter of pride. Or ego. And who’d want to date a guy dumb enough to break up with me in the first place? Lol
So he’s going to call later (earlier he was helping me with my detoxing)…
Then there’s this girl I was really into last year but she was still into her ex. Turns out she still is. Hopefully I’ll get a good friend out of her but Dang it she’s a Jew&crazy like me but still the ex is … probably a really great person.
So I’m detoxing and bedridden according to my pain Dr.
And yet the only sexual partner I’d like is using his weekend pass to see his mom tomorrow😦 oh&thinks sex isn’t a good idea. Crazy boy. (Maybe that should be his code name?)
I met my Beloved (B) in 1994. Love at first sight. At least for me. I grew so attached to her daughter that when B&I lost touch about ’98 I think losing her daughter was more painful…
Fast forward about ten years. B has a son a year older than my boy&immediately I vow I will never get close to her boy as I cannot go thru the pain of losing another child.
This summer B’s mom passed suddenly leaving B&her older brother a house in south Jersey. It was going to be perfect, B assured me. Out boys could have bunkbeds& B&I would share a room. If one of us had a guy over the other could sleep in her daughters room. (Yes, the one I lost but still love as my own tho I doubt she knows it.)
B would bartenders nights and I would take care of the boys, chores. And write and get in shape.
Then it all fell apart&I don’t know why. I know Bs brother was staying …
But now my son & I are screwed. I can’t get in touch with B. And I’m pissed. She was supposed to be my friend.
I asked if we could move in in December but no answer. And I’d need a drivers license to live there but could use one anyway &she said I could use her car but…again, screwed. (We would have more options if I had my license but I can’t afford to rent a car.)
So,I ask, Beloved, wherefore art thou and WHY???
It’s 3:30am&I’ve been texting 14+ hours. I give.
What the fuck? what kind of Aries, god of War, gives up the fight? jeez, one sore back, one night of little sleep, and i cut out of parenting group just to stay in bed. but even worse (do i want to know what that is on m shirt? no. not really.), even worse is i missed a chance to make a new convert.
it’s one thing for those of us who were around when Sandman was actually coming out on a regular basis to be Neil Gaiman fans. and now that we are grown — at least in age — we can read our kids the childrens books he’s written. but what about that group IN BETWEEN? the too-young to have known the awesome comics, and the too-old to know about trading one’s dad for not one but two goldfish?
so i was — ahem, pardon, i AM — going to convert the former ShyBoy / now StudMuffin. Make him into a Gaiman fan by giving him an extra copy i have of Neverwhere. then he can pass it along to his other friends, and a whole group just slightly older than Mr. Gaimans beautiful daughter Maddie will start looking for Gaiman fiction, then comics (and Sandman is just the tip of the comic iceberg). it’ll probably be more interesting than me trying to wear his resolve not to kiss me down to a, “what the hell? might as well…”
granted by the time that boy does get around to kissing me, he’d better be a good kisser. if i have to wait so long that we are in my room with the air conditioner on… ok, i suppose that could be next week . (it won’t be but it could). i supposed i can give him the book friday since i have to get blood taken (how much blood does his mom want from me? maybe i was wrong about the whole werewolf thing — i just gave blood a month ago. and i was wearing my fangs when i gave him my number… [umm, you do know i’m joking about the whole vamp/were thing, right? just making sure])
which reminds me: friday is my son’s “moving up” to 2nd grade ceremony. his last day of school is the 28th, and it’ll probably be a half day. and those family court bastards switched our court date from 7 july to 28 june. i don’t want to bring my son to court! what if he bumps into his dad? my son was just saying how nice it is not having to see his dad. i find it relaxing. the tantrums have gone from all the time within the 24hours before and after a visit with his dad to almost nothing, and now he actually has reasons for getting upset. homework is done in about ten minutes, and we’ve had time to watch a movie or go to the park on school nights. my son isn’t lying like he did when his dad was around. and, even better, it’s been a while since my son has had nightmares. (at first he would start to whimper for me and when i woke him up would say he remembered watching his dad hurt me but otherwise…).
hmmm. maybe it is the switching of the court dates — a warrior, even one as good as Aries, can really only concentrate on one battle at a time. and while the ShyBoy / StudMuffin is infinitely more enjoyable, i must concentrate my efforts on my son and keeping his dad out of his life. if my son can go from verging on a nervous breakdown / regression to being his hapy-go-lucky, sweet, angelic self, in just a few weeks without his dad — oh, and his grades have gone back up — imagine what my son could do if he never had to see his dad again?
so, SB / SM, i haven’t given up (although it would be interesting to check out that Free Will stuff). i’m just off to do battle for my son. and then i’ll make you kick yourself for not kissing me sooner because i am a damn fine kisser, amongst other things lol