home.

I closed this blog a few weeks ago. Firmly and with great resolve. Something bad happened to me while I was blogging here - a lot of really great things happened, but the other thing was so big and fucked up...it just felt like I needed to start over. This place felt tainted. It felt sad. 

So. I re-opened another blog, HERE. But I'll be honest: that blog feels foreign and unnatural. That blog has cooler features - like I can do those Twitter card thingies on Wordpress; and I can write something up, hit publish, and everything just automatically...goes. Goes to Facebook, goes to Twitter, goes to Google+ (who the hell ever uses that place??), goes wherever I've checked a little box telling it to publish to. LOOKS awesome. Very fancy pants; could never figure out how to do it here because I just don't have the HTML skills. 

And yet. That new blog just doesn't FEEL like "home." 

And I really need to be somewhere right now that feels like "home." So much as happened over just the last month, I really really really need to be somewhere that feels like home. 

When I started this blog two years ago, I was in my old house, where it felt like home. And so when I come here, it feels comfortable and familiar and I feel like I'm home. I need to be somewhere where I can write, not caring about who the hell is reading what I type because when I started this blog, I really didn't care who the hell read what I typed. I was typing down the bones, for me. I was here for ME. It was never about other people, and somewhere along the way, it changed. It became about other people and who was reading or may read what I typed. And so maybe that's why the other place doesn't feel quite right. I set it up because I was going to use it to write for other people, and not me. I set it up because I was being defiant, and forging on. Or wherever my psychology was at when it told me: Let's start fresh! Let's start fresh and shiny! But that didn't feel like home. Because I am not fresh, and I am certainly not shiny.

I would like to write about what happened to me in great depth, because I have lingering ick about it, but I have a feeling that's a bad idea I need to save for a really rainy day years down the road. I think the person has finally gotten the message and (hopefully) has moved on or is currently moving on. I don't bear ill will toward that person; I hope they find their happiness and someone more suitable to draw their energy from. Taught me a lot about what I don't want in a friend, as I'm sure it taught them. Still. It was an experience that has altered me drastically - I am still trying to decide if the altering is a good or a bad thing. I feel like I'm sort of forcing a lot of what I do online now and that wasn't the case even a month ago. A month ago, if I felt a feel, I wrote about it. Sometimes I was completely wrong about my feel, and then I felt really dumb. But other times, my feels were right on target and that's always good. Which is the whole point of this place - to live my life out loud, and whoever wants to grab some popcorn and be entertained, great, or maybe someone will see something and recognize it and feel less alone. Now I measure what I say out loud, and that's never been who I am, really. I'm someone who strives to be authentic; what you see is what you get. So other than carefully being careful not to say or write anything that would get me fired? I said whatever was in my brain, I wrote about things that mattered to, or bothered, or angered, or helped, or elated ME. And now I don't know how well I'll be able to do that, but it's important to me to keep trying. However, I now think about things like audience - what person may be reading what I'm writing, and what intentions might they have? I'm only saying this out loud because if I ever come across weird or paranoid or bizarrely skittish, that's why.

And that's something that has drastically altered me in my online interactions but also offline to a certain extent...and I am still sorting out how I want to feel about that.

At any rate. I am not the same person who was writing here a year ago, or even two months ago. I am skittish. And weird and paranoid. I can be overly dramatic in ways that are extremely unattractive...I really feel like, up until about a month or two ago, this trait was fairly cute and one of my more endearingly quirky qualities. But now I think it's a little darker, maybe? On Facebook recently, I unfriended two people, two really nice and perfectly lovely people, over a couple of things of a political nature - one person I disagreed with, and one I agreed with but who disagreed with my mom in kind of a rude way. I mean, yeah, what you said was true but that's my MOM. Only *I* get to be rude to my mom. I think that, now, after the stalking (and it WAS a stalking), I just feel like: hmmm, how well do I really know you? If I don't know you all that well, and this internet area is for people I actually know, then...bye. But they were perfectly safe and fine and I completely over-reacted. I did the same thing on Twitter - if you freaked me out in ANY way, shape, or form at the height of that shit fest? Blocked. And I feel really bad, because I know for a fact I really hurt one of the people's feelings. (This would be the online version of what the military calls civilian casualties during shock and awe.)

This totally bites, you guys. And I've certainly altered how I look at social media and who I interact with on it and how; I no longer see it as silly and ridiculous and a place to meet a lot of potentially nice friends. I mean, I do...but I also see the slippery and diabolically seductive darkness to it, and I now completely understand - and believe me I write this with the deepest and utmost sincerity - why notable people, be they actors or singers or authors or whatever, refuse to acknowledge every individual's attempt to get them to interact with them. People are scary AF. I have met some really lovely, awesome people on it. I have made some friends I'd invite into my home without a second's thought. But going forward, that novel's probably finished. Because people can be scary AF. The end.

So I'm going to re-open this blog, simply because that other place didn't feel right and I need to feel that I'm somewhere that's home. I need to be able to type and spew and vent my spleen somewhere that's simple and mine. I'll forego fancy pants for awhile, because fancy pants feels forced and unnatural. I may change my mind (are you getting that this mind changing thing is a big problem for me?) a few months down the road, but this is where I'm at for now. I'm at a place in life I need people to be consistent with me, because I need to be consistent with me...and changing a whole bunch of things feels wobbly and unstable and inconsistent. This place feels homey and consistent, and so I'm going to park my ass right here and write. It's where I've thought out my thoughts best, for over 2 years. This place holds MY thoughts, MY stories, MY history, however screwy and tainted and misguided and totally off course and weird that may be. I like it here, and so I'm coming home. 

Scary people can come hang out and read however much they like - enjoy it, drink it all in, get your daily or weekly or monthly dose of whatever fucked up energy you feel is necessary to continue your process. If I'm somewhere I feel safe, then. Scary people aren't real. I'm also at a point where I quite frankly don't give a single flying fuck what other people think or how other people feel about anything I do be it online or offline; I question and hyper-criticize my own self enough every day, thanks. Be assured whatever negative, judge-y thought you may have about me I've already had myself, and about ten times before you thought it. Or maybe you're not judge-y and negative at all. We're all just living a life, right? Making choices that take us left or throw us right or send us deep into the murky wells of our deepest lows or lift us up to our highest highs. I've chronicled all of mine here, and decided I'm going to keep doing that until I no longer feel like it. Most blogs last about 5 years, I've read...I bet I've got about 3 more years of oversharing my emotional wranglings out loud here. 

Hoping that, 3 more years from now, I'll be back to the more open, carefree kind of girl I was...and I'll be somewhere that really feels like home. (And there, in that last bit, I am not talking about online anything.)

This pretty much sums up what I need right now.

an abyss of memories (aka: wherein i overshare)

Source: PM-Forever Arts, deviantart.com

postscript edit: a friend sent me a link to a wiki on melancholia. according that, i am not depressed. what i am is longing. i have a bittersweet longing. and according to what i was compelled to write about today, that bittersweet longing is for...my dad. and a dead deer. (which officially makes me the strangest person i know.)

it's raining today. i'm adulting about 50% better than i have been. meaning, i am washing towels and clothes right now, my kitchen and bathroom are clean and my bed has been made. but i'm avoiding looking at my bank account because, though i'm sure i have plenty of money to pay the bills i need to pay, it will mean miss m and i will probably be eating rice-a-roni till i get paid at the end of the week because we went out for dinner too many times in august instead of me cooking (please nobody tell c...it'll be one more example of how i'm not doing It right). 

but mostly: it's raining today, and rain brings out all the melancholy i can usually push far to the back of me. lately i'm like this: i can be happy happy joy joy (sunny days) everything's awesome! omg i LOVE life! *cue broadway dance number here...WITH tap dancing* and then suddenly the next day is a grey, cold, rainy day and i am plunged back into depths of melancholy and bleh, singing sad and mournful songs and dressing all in black. yes, even black lipstick. total goth. 

(what i'm most worried about right now: i heard - or maybe read somewhere - that october in georgia is going to be a DOOZY in terms of number of gloomy, rainy days. you guys! if this is true...how the holy hell in halloween am i going to get through october???? jesus god, i'm going to have to invest in a TON of black mourning clothes. maybe even just a full burqa or something. ululating included.) 

did i ever tell you my maternal grandmother had electric shock treatments? she had at least a couple of nervous breakdowns back in the 50s before we really knew about talk therapy and careful medication, and they stuck her in a hospital and gave her electric shock treatments. probably talk therapy and careful medication would have been better for her - she was reaching out for help, and the shock treatments had the opposite affect on her. they made her very quiet and sad and negative and then she wanted to take a lot of naps whenever stressed out. electric shock treatment seems to be for people who are already very quiet and sad and negative and want to take a lot of naps whenever stressed out; shocks them out of that. but if you're literally, you know, violently screaming for help, then maybe you need some calming medication and a thoughtful, wise ear to talk into instead...not brain trauma. but i don't know. i'm not a mental health professional. (you're welcome, society.)

and did i ever tell you that my dad also struggled with issues of melancholy? from what i've been told, his seemed far worse than mine. he struggled with alcohol dependence, which didn't help. i joke a lot, here and elsewhere, about drinking wine and margaritas and beer and etc, but i'm actually very cognizant of how much alcohol goes into me, why and when, and that's because of my dad. and i will be very forthright and tell you i'm pretty certain i do abuse alcohol on certain days, in certain situations, and under certain circumstances. and i will say that i am aware that when stressed and frustrated and/or angry and/or sad, alcohol is actually not the first thing you should reach out to. hug your kid. run on a treadmill. buy a new wardrobe. write it out. lie quietly and watch a crapload of indie films on netflix. eat an entire quart of salted caramel gelato and a whole chocolate cake by yourself while watching a crapload of indie films on netflix. (i do all of those when i don't think a glass of wine would fix my problem. any other ideas?) 

so my dad's thing was beer. my dad drank an awful lot of beer, and he was not that concerned with quality (pabst blue ribbon and budweiser were his go to's). and he struggled with depression. possibly because alcohol is a depressant and alcohol always makes depression worse, so if you're sad and you start to drink then it just makes your sad even sadder...is my theory. which is why, on days like today, i absolutely avoid it and just eat an entire batch of brownies instead. (i'm more of a celebratory social occasion and a stress drinker, actually.) 

and also we had guns. because my dad grew up in the pocono mountains of pennsylvania and they do two things for fun up there: (1) drink beer and (2) shoot bambi (and thumper and cute little flower and probably sweet friend owl, too). i still remember, when i was 4, my dad's 12-point buck kill (or whatever number...they assign them numbers, like penis inches). my grandfather, dad, and uncle hung it upside down in the garage, then split open its guts which spilled out from its soft, white tummy onto newspapers laid below it. and i remember standing in the door that led from my grandparents' living room into the garage, just staring at this gentle deer, blood and guts everywhere, completely fascinated and horrified all at once. later, they'd cut the head off that deer, send it to a taxidermist, and give it to my dad since it was his kill, and sometimes i'd sit on the floor with it, stroking its still-silky fur, looking into its now-glass eyes, and wondering about what its life had been like before my father and his dad and brother had stopped it. 

for years after, the deer head would move around the country with us, and in each new house my dad would attempt to hang it proudly above the fireplace in the new living room and my mom would give him a cold stare and it would end up in a guest bedroom or an office or the garage. but i can still smell my grandparents' garage when it hung from the ceiling, and i remember how cold it was that afternoon and i could see my breath in the air as i stood watching the deer from the doorway, and i could smell the wild still on its body, and i could smell its blood. that dead deer is such a huge childhood memory for me; it's one of my most vivid, actually. in fact, right now, i'm smelling those smells as i'm typing this. i'm pretty certain mental health professionals call that Trauma. 

at any rate, i have no idea why i'm not a vegetarian now. i do think about going lacto-ovo at least, and one day complete vegan. throughout college i didn't eat animal meat, but i also didn't get enough protein in general and i think i got anemia or something. so later, i went back to animal flesh but only chickens, fish, and pigs. because fish, i reasoned, don't have feelings and chickens have weird feet. and pigs because...bacon. but NO COWS. because cows have gentle eyes. and to this day i refuse to eat a baby animal. animals are our FRIENDS. stop shooting them. and NO, ted nugent, i do NOT actually care about deer being like forest rats. go read The Yearling and get over yourself.

where was i? right...alcohol, beer, depression, guns. so i grew up with guns. mostly rifles, stored in a gun cabinet with a glass door on it that stood in a hallway. and i remember my dad would sometimes take the guns out to clean them, and i don't know if it's because i've always had a really healthy sense of self-preservation and/or the memory of what can happen to a body (deer or human) from one of those guns' bullets, but the guns terrified me. and my dad terrified me as well - he'd talk to my brother and me about what he was doing as he cleaned them, and he'd describe in great detail the atrocities that can happen to children who decide to touch instruments such as these. and so i've never had a desire to shoot a gun. i have some friends who are having love affairs with them, and i think they're absolutely nuts. guns are bad news. unless you're a soldier or a cop or you live 500 miles from a grocery store and so you HAVE to shoot your own meat, why have them? 

and they can put dangerous ideas in one's head.

my dad had a moment - several moments, actually - when he wasn't doing well at Life. he was drinking way too much, and he was struggling at work. alcohol changed my dad's personality a bit; mainly, it kind of eliminated his social filter, and his superiors at work were growing agitated with him because he was a bit too open with them about their jackassery. if i've learned nothing else from my father's struggles, i've learned that jackasses don't really like to be told they are jackasses, even if it will help them stop being jackasses and become more successful. you can lead a jackass to water, but you cannot make him (or her) drink.

and he'd either been already laid off or was about to be. and he was struggling. and one day, my mom caught him in their bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub holding one of his pistols. she asked what he was doing, and he said just cleaning it, got up and put it back wherever he kept it. but after he walked out, my mom found two bullets in the bathroom sink. and no gun cleaning supplies anywhere.

i think my dad was...pondering, is what i'm saying. my father had demons; we all do. it's why i don't judge others for their poor choices. life is tricky, and some days you do think about sitting on the edge of a tub, considering options. it's what you do next that counts, and my dad was far too responsible to choose the wrong option. but that story lets me know how big his struggles really were, and it makes me wish i'd given him more hugs that lasted a really long time. 

things you learn as you age; when my dad was alive i was just a self-centered girl who didn't really get how big and overwhelming life can become.

i know somebody - probably my mom - is going to read this blog entry and try to commit me to a hospital for observation or something. so let me be clear: i am NOT writing this to suggest I'M going to go sit on a tub holding a pistol in my hands, pondering. i have far too much schoolwork to do still, too many hands to hold, a class from heaven this year to enjoy, and miss m is my entire world and i want to see her win her Golden Globe and/or Oscar one day because every day i'm more and more certain her dramatic nature is leading her down that very path. what i'm saying is: i am melancholy by nature, that i think it may be hereditary, and because of the big life change i made this summer, that melancholy has taken over a bit lately and i've noticed. if you read here regularly, i'm sure you have as well. but i've noticed to the point where i now think i want to go talk to somebody about it. i don't expect every day to be rainbows and unicorns and splashing dolphins in the sunlight zone, but i would like to stay out of the abyss permanently...maybe just hang in the twilight zone now and then, an occasional little dip down into the midnight zone during rainy octobers. but the abyss is bad. very, very bad. 

or! i could just bake some chocolate chip cookies and down them with a few margaritas after buying a couple of new outfits and watching a few indie films. i don't know.

also, i'm sorry for not using capitals at the beginning of my sentences or consistently...the shift key was just a bit too much for me today. i'm anti-shift key right now.

mind-numbing anger management.

Sad News: I've had to pull out of writing for threeifbyspace.net. I'm all kinds of sad about it; I was deeply excited about reviewing The Expanse in December. I got to do some Comic-Con write ups about it, though, and that was cool. But I'll be very honest: Life is really kicking my ass right now. Personally and professionally. I've been reviewing Extant on CBS, which has one of my favorite storytellers, David Morrissey, in it. And Jeffrey Dean Morgan (oh my god, that long drink of water Jeffrey Dean Morgan). But shitty shit happened and I couldn't keep up. I just had to stop; I do need deadlines and editors, but I also need to sleep, earn money, and learn how to be a single mom without having a mental meltdown. It was just too much on my plate, and I was having emotional meltdowns which were keeping me from doing a good job for them. And I'm still super excited about watching The Expanse and will most likely write about it (if Life's not kicking my ass) here, on this blog.

They're lovely, kind people, those three if by spacers. They said I was a terrific writer and I can come back and write for them whenever I feel like it. And if/when I can pull myself together, I can rejoin their fun family all the time, because I will always be in their family. I like nice, kind people. Don't you?

But mostly I'm here to say: I finally figured out why I'm so mad. (Mom! Look away!) 

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Here it is: I'm sexually frustrated. 

I'm not going to go into the gory details on a public blog, but I will tell you it's been a long while. Since that's happened. With another human being.

My fears/concerns: I'm 43. In less than six months, I'll be 44. (And in two decades I'll be 64 and probably drooling with dementia and this torture won't even be an issue. Silver linings.) I've just left a marriage. Right now, what I need to be doing is taking care of me and my daughter, not thinking about shit like this. But I do, and it's kinda/sorta a problem, I guess? I'm writing about it here, so it must be. 

I'm very picky about whose hands I want on me. I have a long record of making horrible choices in this area. I either end up with a man who knows what he's doing but is fucked up in some way or another, or I end up with one who doesn't have a clue what he's doing and I end up even more frustrated than before.

So I guess if I had to choose between those, I'd pick the fucked up man who knows what he's doing. Because I want to be devoured. Except not chewed up and spit out. And, in my experience, I find men who know how to properly devour women really just chew them up...then spit them out. They get bored quickly, grow aloof, and move on. And that's a shitty feeling, no? Not only do you get to be disgusted with and mad at the devourer, you also get to be disgusted with and mad at yourself because you're part of the problem: you're the bleeding fish that threw itself in the water with the sharks. What did you think would happen?

Also, this is hard to write about and not just because my mom's probably reading.

At any rate. I'm having a really hard time. I'm completely in sexual limbo right now. Still married legally, not free to date. Don't really want to date, because I talk to people who do date and the process sounds so mind-numbingly depressing my brain wants to hurl itself off a cliff. Want to have sex, but not really free to have sex. Want to have sex with the right person, but not really free to find the right person. Thinking about the process of finding the right person is mind-numbingly depressing. 

I know you're reading this going: you're over-thinking this, Amy. One day, someone will just come along when you don't expect it. I disagree with you. That's like saying: trust in the Lord, He will provide. No, He won't, you naive psycho. Not unless you do some seriously hard legwork, too. You don't just pray for cash and then the next day a million dollar check shows up at your door. Life does not work like Pat Robertson wants you to think it does. The Universe is not a wishing well.

Meanwhile, I can feel my libido aging. 

And I also know you're probably thinking: well, Amy. There's always self-love. And if you're thinking that, hahaha! I so want to punch you right now. I don't care if we're related or not. I want to punch you. Self-love is NOT the same and you know it.

This is why I'm angry, Internet. This is exactly why. I love men. But I don't love men who are pigs. (Are there men who aren't pigs? Maybe just the men I know and love.) 

And I'm overwhelmed by work. I want to meet a nice person to be just friends with, to meet for dinner and conversation, and then also no strings other stuff that won't get messy and complicated. And be devoured but not chewed up and spit out. 

I feel like I'm asking for the sun, the moon, and the stars. And it's mind-numbingly anger-inducing. 

fairy sex doesn't pay bills.

I'll be honest: I'm not okay. I'm back at work now. I did start the week strong and fresh. Thursday was great - I met some of the cutest babies you'll ever meet. I can't wait to hang out with some of those kids all day! Oh my god. Freaking cute. I'm serious. I don't want to jinx it or anything, but of the 23 kids on my class list, the eleven I met Thursday were all ridiculously cute, and their families seemed sweet, too. I really feel like someone was trying to be nice to me. 

But Friday was nuts. Everything fell apart on Friday. Stupid, stupid Friday. Here's the thing about people who don't work classrooms or haven't worked classrooms in a really long time: they don't know. They don't know how stressful it is to finish a classroom set up AND do lesson plans AND get all materials ready for Monday. Because Monday morning, they're coming. And it's so much better to walk in the door ready to go, with everything you need ready to go. Otherwise, it's just one day of effed up crazy, let me tell you. And that's on top of all the things that will already be effed up crazy.

Then again, I don't know. Maybe it's just me. I watched one girl just casually cut out things in her classroom all day Friday. Her classroom has been set up, ready to go, oh, about mid-June. Some teachers come in and work on their rooms all summer. For free. Off contract. Then, come Pre-Planning week, they just sit all calm and casual in the 10 million meetings, not even worried. I'm not even kidding you guys: they actually come to school dressed up like it's a regular work day. I show up in jeans or work out clothes; they stroll in wearing cute sundresses, business pumps, and teacher cardigans. Hair in place, make up fresh. All day long. 

Those people are of the devil. And also I really think they're hiding something horrific in their garage freezers or something. I bet you. I bet you. 

Me? Hell no. I work my ass off Monday-Friday, August-May. Which means June through July you can find me laying by the pool or in the pool, and there will be a cool adult beverage at my side and if that bothers you and you want to mouth off to me about lazy teachers and overpaid teachers and crap? You can just take a flying leap into a large sea of horse excrement. 

You don't know me. You don't know anything about me, or what I do.

I'm a tad on edge; I don't know if you can tell or not. I had a stress headache on Friday the size of Mt. Everest, and there was nausea to accompany it. I have Miss M back with me, and I'm not doing the Momming stuff very well. I wish I was the kind of mom who baked healthy granola bar snacks and read books every single night and did M's physical therapy exercises (Miss M needs to correct her walking gait) every single night exactly like the sheet says to. I wish I was the kind of mom who made sure she always leaves the house looking magnificent: hair in place, fashionably appropriate clothes, well-mannered and quiet. 

But I am not. My child watches UNCLE GRANDPA on Netflix, grazes on cereal and juice boxes all day, reads books now and then usually without me, and just half-asses it through her physical therapy exercises...kind of like how I half-ass it through my treadmill workouts. Her hair isn't always in place, she wears mismatched and bizarre outfits (the other day, she tried to leave the apartment in Daisy Duke shorts, a Frozen shirt, and a faux fox fur winter vest. With plaid boat shoes). 

I just don't care. I mean, honestly. Does she HAVE to wear underwear? I don't always wear underwear. And socks. Who the hell really needs those. Or shoes, for that matter. It's summer and our cave people ancestors never wore them. And who cares if the shirt doesn't match the shoes. Or her hair is a bit frizzy. And there are actually some really sweet messages behind the bizarreness of UNCLE GRANDPA. Also, I let her watch old episodes of THE BERNIE MAC show. And they use the word "ass" and say things like "Aw, HELL no!" She knows not to say those words in public. We talk about things like that. 

Oh and by the way, she's starting 1st grade reading on a 3rd grade level. So sue me. (Yet I still feel completely incompetent.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. Me. So I'm in a weird place right now. My stress levels are absolutely through the roof. I am not ready for Monday. I am not ready to deal with what is coming. I loved the peace and quiet of working in my classroom, setting it up. But now it's going to be loud and busy, and I don't really love loud and busy. And there's a lot on my plate at work this year; I am a grade level leader, and people are coming to me with questions. And right now, I can't deal with questions. My answer, when these people come to me with their questions, their so many effing questions, is: "My brain is dead. I really don't know. Maybe go ask so-and-so." I'm the type of leader who totally foists issues off onto other people. A total duty shirker. And I don't care. My brain is about to explode from stress. 

And I miss my friends. A lot of my friends are gone, having fled education or been moved elsewhere not by choice. And now my work is lonely. There is no more laughter. No one else to vent to. No one who's got my back so I can have theirs. I'm a lone soldier now, a mercenary. My troop's been ambushed, and I am all that is left. And the government - as governments are wont to do during acts of war - did this to me. On purpose. I am wandering the foreign landscape, trying to find my way home, lost in the desert. Wounded, and bleeding.

Okay, that's done. Let's move on! 

The other thing I'm dealing with right now is a need to prioritize. I am accomplishing very little, because I refuse to prioritize. No self-discipline. No willpower. Just...hedonism. All. Damn. Day. But I'm going to have to, in order to survive. I haven't written much of anything beyond navel gazing, self-serving tweets lately. That is not writing. That is...I don't know what that is, but I sense it's slightly pathetic. And I'm a person who needs to write, or I am not okay. I suspect this is about 56% of the reason I am really, really off lately. 

So I started a story about a woman who travels between worlds every three years (I think I wrote about this before), and I am now determined to finish it. There are fairies involved, and I think I may throw in a sex scene. Can you do that in short stories? I don't care, I'm going to. 

The thing about my inner mind workings (as well as some of my outer mind workings) is that, now that school's back in session, I'm having a slightly hard time reconciling teaching sweet little babies and being a moral upright pillar of example in the community, versus being what I feel myself being drawn to nowadays. Which, apparently, is fairy sex. 

But fairy sex isn't all that lucrative, money-wise, and I've got bills to pay. And I really love where I'm living...I'd hate to have to go live in a hovel or, god forbid, my mom's basement. (Don't get offended, Mom! You know you don't want me living down there either.) 

It's a real issue for me right now. I bet if I could prioritize AND compartmentalize better it would be less of an issue. Does anyone know how to compartmentalize? A friend told me the other day that it involves just knowing how to really, really focus. Which makes me want to laugh my ridiculous head off. Focus. Me. Really. That's hilarious.

Okay. I'm done here. Thanks for letting me vent my spleen to you. If you don't hear back from me in about two weeks, check my mom's basement.

anger management, xxl.

Forewarning: there are many angry swears in this - sorry mom. 

This scene is what the press junkets SHOULD have
focused on.

I saw Magic Mike XXL last night. I don't know if I should publicly admit this, because I almost feel like it's admitting I read 50 Shades of Grey cover to cover and had favorite sentences in it that I highlighted and return to whenever I need writing inspiration (I have never read 50 Shades of Grey). However, in my (and many other women's) defense, may I just say that I think there are all kinds of movies for all kinds of situations. Books, too. Just like taking a mindless/garbage-y/trashy romance to the beach to read and leaving War and Peace at home? Thus shall movies like Magic Mike  and Magic Mike XXL serve their purpose for (Wo)Man. It is a trashy beach read, on film.

I saw the first Magic Mike, yet preferred this Magic Mike to the first Magic Mike. (Which, just expressing that opinion out loud, I think officially makes me a connoisseur of trashy films). It makes fun of itself, and I like people/books/film/music/art that can make fun of themselves. Life's short, let's mock It. 

I loved Jada Pinkett Smith as the girl version of Matthew McConaughey--I'm sorry, Matthew McConaughey, I normally love you, but you were far too oily in the other one. But Jada! Jada was bad. ass. And she knows women and knew exactly what to do with this character (which totally makes sense, since she is one) - I want a Girls Night Out with Jada Pinkett Smith. And can we talk about Joe Manganiello for a couple of seconds? Oh my. Oh my! I know most women go for the Channing Tatum scenes, but Joe just looks like he has a secret obsession for Shakespeare sonnets. People are all talking about his gas station mini-market dance, but I am in love with the wedding/honeymoon dance scene. Minus the swing; let's not get crazy (because that was crazy).

What I most liked about this movie is it knew who'd be watching it (me...I'm saying I think Channing Tatum & Co. personally tailored it for me: "How can we make Amy in Georgia happy?" was a constant refrain heard at every table read). Best scene/stole-the-show character: Andie MacDowell. Oh, how I understood her - not her divorce situation; I am separating from a nice man. Just her anger. If you've seen or do see the movie, you'll understand what I'm talking about.

Because I'm pretty angry at the moment. A stew-y type of anger. A stew-y, soup-y, highly controlled kind of anger that's actually hard to explain unless you're inside of me. (Please don't make inappropriate jokes about how that came out because I started off rave-salivating over a male stripper movie. You'll just add to the swirling bog of turbulent vexation.)

Here are some examples of things that make me angry right now:

1. People, specifically men, telling me what to do/who I am/how I feel. Are you me? Do you have exclusive access to the thoughts in my brain? That's right, you don't, so. Fuck you.

2. People, specifically men, who make assumptions about what I need or what I want. Oh, why? Because I'm in a bad spot right now, and vulnerable, and so I don't really know what I need or want? Fuck you.

3. People, specifically men, who think because I'm separated now that I'm easier to take advantage of. Oh, you sense my vulnerability and think it'll make me less discerning? Fuck you. 

I continue processing where I'm at right now - this will take an enormously long time to wade through if I want to do it properly, and I want to do it properly. My summer is ending, I have to get back to work next week, and I have to engage and be present there. I've accepted that this is where I'm supposed to be right now, in terms of career, for whatever reason, and so it's really important to me now to stay engaged and focused. Yet I also know now that, particularly at work, I need to keep protective walls of immunity from the Crazy built around me. I need to tend to these walls, adding layers whenever necessary. 

And I'm still adjusting to my new home situation, and I am worried about me, about C, about Miss M. And so you know what? This IS all making me vulnerable, goddammit. And that's what's making me angry, I bet. Each interaction I have with a new human being right now, specifically the male of the species, leaves me generally suspicious: what do you really want from me? I am here for me and my family, full stop. If you are not in my family, I'm not here for you - I am not responsible for how you feel or what you think, and what you want is...sorry to be rude, but that's your problem not mine. You do you; I'll do me. And so I have nothing for you and I am a mess right now; please don't say or do anything to make it worse. 

Generally, I'm a ridiculously over the top nice person, an extreme people pleaser of the worst kind. I try very hard to keep my interactions with others - online and off - kind and pleasant. I prefer to spread love, not anger. But I'm finding I may have to start being a bit more assertive. Less nice. More Jada Pinkett Smith-y. If you will. 

Most of all, I need to be surrounded by healers and people who just want to laugh and have fun right now. Go see Magic Mike XXL, and you'll get a good idea of who I want to hang out with right now (and NO I am not saying I want to be surrounded by male entertainers...you seriously haven't even read a thing I just wrote, have you? Focus, or we can't be friends: I mean people who don't take themselves seriously, people who are interested in smiling and laughter and fun and goodness and kindness and authenticity. I want to be around people who know this planet is hard to live on and so let's not create any more messes than we absolutely positively have to. And I want to be with people - specifically men - who know sometimes women just want to be a queen, not a thing to be manipulated and used and taken advantage of). 

Ending side note: This would be one of those roller coaster emotions a friend of mine told me about. This week's roller coaster was anger; last week's was sadness. I'm cycling through, so happiness is right around the corner; I just know it.

debt, wine, and curtains: an update.

Don't get close to what happened to the
drywall - you'll burn your eyes.

I realized the other day I haven't updated this blog in awhile. Egads! I'm sorry if you're a regular reader. Or even if you're an irregular reader (try laxatives).

Here's what's been happening with me:

1- Debt. Up to my eyeballs. I find something else to buy and just think: ah, screw it. What's one more $250 charge? I am a credit card company's wet dream.

2-Curtains. I drilled some big holes above my windows and so the curtain rod in that picture to the left is holding up curtains and doing a fairly good job, but not really. One strong gust of wind, and BLAM! I think there may be steel behind the windows is why. The kit gave me anchors to put in, but the anchors wouldn't go in, and a hammer just made the situation worse. Ten billion swear words and 2 gallons of sweat later, I created what you see in the picture then went for a strong drink.

The process taught me the following: I need a step ladder. And a dry wall expert when I move out. And longer curtains (I eventually bought longer curtains than the first pair I hung up, but they're still not long enough--my high concept was graceful curtains spilling into elegant pools of soft fabric on the floor...instead I got nerdy high water capris that mock me every time I look at them. I need a better tape measure. And math skills).

This area of the apartment is the part I'm calling my window Monet--looks great from afar but when you get up close, it's one big ol' mess.

3-Overflowing commode. Miss M decided to use half a roll of toilet paper before leaving for a week at her dad's, and I didn't find out until a loo run at 3 AM. I had to call the emergency line, and a really sweet man came over and unclogged my toilet. At 3 o' clock in the morning. He showed up with exactly one toilet fixin' tool: a big plunger. I offered him exactly 10,000 sincere apologies and thank yous for getting out of bed at 3 AM and sticking a plunger into my toilet, with a million promises I'd go to Home Depot for a stronger plunger immediately. (Which I did do. The plunger was like $5.99 but I walked out with $100 of other things.)

4-Thick skin. I've never had very thick skin, but lately it's been paper thin. I'm sorry if I've ever interacted with you on a paper-thin skin day.

5-Chromebook picture cropping. I know how to crop pictures, and I know how to crop pictures using a Chromebook, but I don't know how to see what size I've cropped them to. Please talk to me if you know how to do this. I'm serious. I'll come over and hang curtains for you, and after 60 minutes of dropping the F bomb in creative ways and sweating til our shirts stick to our bodies, we'll swear and say, "Screw THIS shit," and go have drinks. I'll buy. With my credit card.

6-Religious wine. I bought ten bottles of wine at Trader Joe's the other day, so I could fill up my wine rack. The sweet older gentleman at the cash register looked at me really hard as he rang up my wine. Just as I was about to say something nervous like, "Well, uh. You know: I'm having a big party. A party for some winos! Hahaha!", he asked, "Is that a Star of David necklace you're wearing?" And then I told him no, it's a starfish. And then he told me he was curious if I was Jewish because he's Jewish and there just aren't many Jews in this area (I'm so glad he didn't think I was Jewish because I bought so much wine). And then I joked about how I'm kind of the most Jewish Gentile he'll ever meet. And then he asked if I'd married a Jew, was that why, and so I told him about the show DIG, and how much Judaic research I'd done because of it, and then I convinced him to go look for it online and watch it. Also, my wine collection is AMAZING now.

Still drinking wine and talking about the show DIG and its religion theme, even after all this time. Comforting.

7-Writing. I wrote my first real article for a non-self-published website! You can go read it HERE.

It's got amazing Dave Morrissey in it, and information about how Jeffrey Dean Morgan is going to make me all gaga-eyed, every Wednesday night.

8-Back to Reality. In less than a month, I'll be back to teaching. I'm currently working on where to place that emotionally. But I'll welcome the distraction. And the lack of free time to shop. (Although there's online shopping, I suppose.) (Somebody please help me.)

If you can ignore the stray fingerprints on the TV,
the quote is there to remind you about what
matters. Unless the TV is on, and then you should focus
on what's on that. While continuing to ignore the fingerprints.

exhausted and okay.

My first art purchase. Just because it seemed
like good advice.

I think I said I'd write something happier in my next blog post. Here is my happier:

We are moved in, the apartment is a mess but beginning to feel more like "home." And there's a pool. Also, I haven't bounced any checks yet. 

Miss M has decided we need to call this place The Flat. Since that's what English people call apartments, and Harry Styles is from England. And so we call it "the flat." As in: "Our flat is the most lovely of all the flats here." We say it with a faux British accent, too. (Anglophiles are a UK person's version of a gnat, I bet. Kind of like going on a date with someone who's very nice but you feel no connection but they immediately want to sleep with you because you remind them of their first sexual conquest and you're all: Ew, NO! but they won't take the hint and then you have to roll your eyes a lot and avoid their phone calls. Kind of like that. Is what I'd imagine being a UK person dealing with an American anglophile is like.)

At any rate. I'm still on edge. Mostly because I'm exhausted, I think. Wiped out. Empty. I have ZERO patience for the following: incompetence, jackassery, dickheads, and the needy. God help you if you're a needy, incompetent dickhead spewing jackassery around me. I cannot and will not tolerate it. I simply don't have time for you--I still need to hang curtains and buy more spoons. Get over yourself.

I've met some very, very kind people along the way. And re-discovered how important it is to ask for help when you need it, and how really important it is to have a help network. Family means everything to me right now--I come from good people, who've married good people. Even though one of these people keeps trying to rearrange my living room furniture by moving one chair half a centimeter to the left because it "just FEELS better" until I scream "JESUS GOD MOM!!! Stop it!!!" (Hi, mom! I love you! Also: this is how Miss M talks to me, exactly how. Karma.)

I'm slightly worried about Miss M. I think what she's feeling is normal, but I monitor her closely, taking nervous temperature gauges but trying adeptly not to let her know that's what I'm doing. She varies between just fine and normal to very somber and sad. She misses her dad. But she's worried about missing me when she's with her dad. This is where the moments of "Did I do the right thing?" come in. And then I have moments when I feel like I did, because even though I'm tense right now, I can see this won't last forever and I'll get a handle on things and it'll be okay. Until there's another moment in a restaurant on Father's Day where I see her watching a family near us and I ask her if she's wondering why that man has an oxygen tank with him and she starts to cry and says, "No. I was thinking: why can't we be like that family? All together?" 

That's when I know there will always be a need for therapists in the world. 

I have a stomper above me. I knew this would happen--I would hear other people, and I would need to get used to it. But honestly, why is he stomping? I've been walking across my floor to see if it's just me being picky--maybe if I were up there, the mere act of walking in these apartments flats would make a stomping sound. But nope. I'm pretty sure there's no stomping with just normal walking. So I've been telling myself he wants to be Monty Python, and is up there inventing walks for the Ministry of Silly Walks. 

The man down the hall has left his dirty shoes outside his door for well over 72 hours. If they're out there more than a week, I'm either donating them to the Ministry of Silly Walks stomper above me or putting them in the trash compactor. There should be apartment hallway standards. 

There's a barky dog down the hall. We finally met her today: an angry, overprotective miniature dachsund. I knew it! I told M it was going to be one of those annoying little ones that sound bigger than they are but you can really take them down with just a good, nasty stare. We don't like the angry dachsund. We do, however, like the yellow striped cat next door who uses the pine straw as his personal litter box and stares at people from the one window, assessing all who pass by in a really "I seriously don't give a shit" kind of way. He's pretty friendly, and also now Miss M and I know: don't walk on that patch of grass and/or pine straw in bare feet. 

There are friendly children here at the pool...M can usually find someone to play with when we go there. But they're only visible at the pool--there's a small playground here, but no one plays on it. It's become apparent to me that Miss M actually would have made an excellent older (bossy) sibling. She's dying for someone to be a big sister to. If you have a small child who needs a bossy big foster sister, please let me know. We'll babysit them for free--take them swimming, introduce them to an angry miniature dachsund and have our upstairs neighbor teach them some silly walks. (Of course, you'll babysit Miss M for free, too, because that's pretty exhausting work, taking care of multiple children, and so I'll need some breaks myself. I know it's why I went into to teaching--who doesn't love taking care of multiple children by themselves? It's so awesome!) (Why are kids so frickin' exhausting? And LOUD. And messy. And bossy. And dysfunctionally needy?)

I am exhausted, is what I'm saying. Tapped out. Done for. I got nothing. So please don't come to me with your a-hole behavior because I will bite off your head. And please don't come to me with your needy behavior, because I will get really snippy with you because there IS no more money in this ATM, what do you not understand about that. But my last post apparently worried people about me, so I wanted to come here and say: I am okay. We are okay. Everything is both sad and exciting and happy and scary all at once. But I haven't bounced a check yet or forgotten a bill, and that's good. And so overall, we are all going to be okay. I think.

Here. This is what I've been doing:

Now I just need curtains. And a rich benefactor to pay off my credit card.

jaws tooth dreams

Source: Miranda Cosgrove Art

Many months ago, I used to have a bizarre recurring dream about sharks. I'd be swimming with them and pretty nervous about it, but they ignored me and we all just swam together. There was that one. And the other one was that I'd be swimming--sometimes alone, sometimes with the sharks--but I'd know underneath me was a really BIG shark, like a JAWS kind of shark, and it was there and any moment it could just....swim up, from the depths, and chomp me. There was that one. That one usually woke me up. (Amy fact: my two greatest death fears are dying in a fiery plane crash and getting eaten by JAWS. People tell me these are THE two most unlikely causes of death, on a probability/statistical level. Most people die of heart attacks or cancer or falling down stairs. But I don't know...I contend I'm going to die in a fiery plane wreck--it will catch on fire, crash into the ocean. Which I will survive...until JAWS shows up to eat me.)

Last night, I dreamt I was in Texas. My mom (hi mom!) was there, reading a Bible in the bushes (seems like something you'd do in Texas, yes?). And there was a Rabbi. I don't know why but there was a Rabbi. Watching my mom read a Bible in the bushes. In Texas. But also, my teeth were falling out. Not many of them, just two--one on the bottom, one on top. And I pulled them out, like kids do when their teeth come out. I wasn't upset about it at first, because I figured they'd grow back. Until right before I woke up, when I was standing (in Texas, with my mom and a Rabbi and a Bible in the bushes) with one of my incisors in my fingers, studying the bloody roots on it and realized: oh god, this is a GROWN UP tooth; those don't grow back! And then I woke up. And now my mouth feels weird.

So I did what I did with the shark dreams and everything else that interests me intensely and/or freaks me out: I went spelunking online (I personally like to start with Google, but I hear there are other mouths of caves to start in). Here's what I found:

First, the sharks (just in case you, too, ever have recurring shark dreams):

Sharks represent anger/hostility. If they show up in your dreams, you're in a long, difficult emotional period. You might be struggling with asserting your independence or individuality somewhere, particularly in a relationship. (Sounds about right, for me, given the time period I was having those shark-y dreams.) That, or you know a greedy, unscrupulous person who gets what she or he wants with little regard to the feelings of others...or YOU. YOU are greedy and unscrupulous, getting your needs met without regard for others. And if this is true, I hope JAWS finds you and eats you this summer.

Next, the teeth (and Texas and my mom and the rabbi and bushes):

The Chinese think falling out teeth dreams mean you're a liar. I am, but only to myself. To other people, I am horrible at this. I find telling the truth just makes life less complicated...and also my fuzzy brain can't remember a lot of different stories or who I told them to. So, sorry China, you're wrong.

And Greek and Latin American people think falling out teeth mean someone's dying. Hmm. Maybe? Maybe this is true for me right now...but only in sort of a very thematic sense, not literally.

Freud and his penis cigar.
Source: Ham & High 

But mostly, teeth falling out dreams mean transition. Sigmund Freud thought dreaming about losing your teeth meant you had sexual repression. But then, Sigmund Freud thought everything was about sexual repression. Also, Sigmund Freud liked to smoke really big, long, phallic-shaped cigars. Just FYI.

Other dream psychoanalyzers say tooth loss dreaming happens during major life changes: they represent insecurity or vulnerability...changing jobs, ending/beginning relationships, moving, or just breaking bad habits. Abrupt or gradual changes. Also, for women, it could mean you're in menopause. I'm not in menopause, but if this means I AM going into menopause, then I hope the hot flashes hold off til winter when they'll be more useful.

But they could also represent an inability to make a decision, or you're making too many costly compromises about something, you're worried about your image (to self or others), or (if you like to smoke phallic-shaped cigars and speak with a German accent), you need a few good orgasms. Or you're a man who's worried about his pee pee. (Dr. Freud had some issues, no?)

At any rate, my dreams are turning weird. I know it's because of where I'm at right now. But tomorrow night, if I dream about swimming with a Rabbi and my mom while she's reading the Bible and my teeth are falling out right before JAWS chomps us to bloody bits, I'm going to have a serious chat with my bizarre brain. (Or turn it into an Academy-award winning screenplay or Pulitzer-nominated novel.)

My 70s actor crush Roy Scheider feeds toothy JAWS (and my dreams!)

bad at endings.

Hi, Internet. How are you tonight? (It's Friday night as I type this.) How was your week? Did you get a lot accomplished? Were you stressed at all? Did anything super happy come your way? Anything exciting? Or maybe something sad or bad happened to you (today, in Atlanta, an airplane crashed on Interstate 285 and 4 people died. The people who loved those 4 people are having a really bad day). 

I'm just telling you about the plane crash because I needed to keep my life in perspective, particularly right now. I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I make frequent requests (ok, fine--demands) to the Universe and these are usually along the lines of: Give me this, or Take away that, or I promise to...if You'll just..., or (my frequent favorite) Oh, help, please please HELP. 

C and I are separating this summer; we spoke a little about it tonight on the way to our little girl's soccer practice. I have decided to get an apartment instead of keep the house, because our house overwhelms me; I need to be able to (a) live on/clean only one floor of living space and (b) when something breaks, be able to pick up a phone and dial ONE number for help. More than that sends me into throes of procrastination Limbo and, believe me, that is never ever pretty to witness.

I love C with my whole heart, and I always will. He has been one of my Life's greatest teachers and helpers, and I think he will always be someone I can call for help or just advice. And I say that, because I think I will always be someone he can call for help or just advice (though, if we're going to be VERY honest here, I need more help with Life than C typically does). 

About February of 2014, we decided that though we love each other a lot, we're simply two different people, who want very different things now. We have tried hard to find a middle meeting place with that for many many years, with the help of many many couples counselors, and have been unable to. He is tired of beating a square peg to get it to fit into a round hole; I am tired of being a square peg constantly trying to reconfigure my shape so it fits in a round hole. Counselors, despite their many years of training and service, have never figured out a way to help the two of us reconcile that. 

In addition, I tend to...withdraw...when terribly vexed. It is the nature of my INFP-ness. C does not understand or know how to cope with this, and...there are other aspects that play into our communications issues, but these are far too personal for a public blog. Just know: it's really, really, really important to talk to your partner...but it's also really, really, really important (possibly more important) to listen. That is all I can say.

Elizabeth Gilbert, in her books COMMITTED: A LOVE STORY and EAT PRAY LOVE wrote these important things about love and commitment:

“People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each other’s personalities. Who wouldn’t? Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person. But that’s not the clever trick. The really clever trick is this: Can you accept the flaws? Can you look at your partner’s faults honestly and say, ‘I can work around that. I can make something out of it.’? Because the good stuff is always going to be there, and it’s always going to pretty and sparkly, but the crap underneath can ruin you.” (COMMITTED: A LOVE STORY)

and

 

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master...”  (EAT PRAY LOVE)

What I'm saying (by using Liz's words that really hit me in the gut whenever I read them) is that they define what C and I are, and have been for a long while now, going through. That it's imperative you are able to accept the other's flaws; that you should not try to change the soul to whom you feel most devoted, because that soul is a divine connection to yours and if when you try to change the divine, you are really mucking things up. I am saying that, if you love someone so much you want to be with them for always, then you must also love their least lovable parts as well, even when you think you can't any longer. 

I can't say that I have done that for C. I won't speak for C here, because it would be hurtful. But I would hope he's spent some time really pondering how much he truly did this for me.

Having said that, if Liz is correct about soul mates, then C is mine. He's been a mirror, showing me where I'm holding back; he's smacked me awake more times than my parents ever did; he's peeled back layers of Amy I never knew were there. And I hope I've done that, on some levels at least, for him. 

We are very civil, and we are staying good friends, because we share a little girl who is full of indignation and a big big heart; a soccer playing, dramatic little princess for whom we want only the very best. But this is a very, very sad time for me right now. I'm not sad about the actual failure part of my marriage--I think we both tried as hard as we possibly could to rescue it; in the end, it was just time. What I am most sad about is the relinquishing of shared dreams and memories, and the nostalgia for what might have been and wasn't meant to be. And I am sad for Miss M, because this is going to be a hard journey for her to take; a journey she didn't ask to take, one she doesn't really want to go on.

So the next several months will be very hard for all of us, and so...if I come here and write weird blog posts expounding on sort of spiritual-y sounding weirdness, or I wax poetic about love and loss, this is why. Endings are hard, and I am not good at them. In writing...or in Life.**

(Can I share a quote with you? From one of my favorite movies? It helps me in times like this, and that's why storytelling matters, friends):

Don't judge me by my rom-coms. Because Harry Connick, Jr.

**Also know that I will be okay. I always am. And, though my marriage is ending, and DIG (on USA!) has also ended (sob), I will find other things to occupy my time and mind with; and I will be okay. Everything happens exactly as, and when, it's meant to. This is one of those meant to's. 

3 strikes.

Source: The Story People

In a tremendous effort to keep this blog from turning into the All DIG (on USA!) ALL THE TIME!! blog, instead of the "Amy's Totally Weird Brain Spewings" blog that it originally began as before DIG-y mind blowing magic took over everything (no, seriously: EVERYTHING), I'm going to write a quick, here's where I'm at/what I've been up to (besides trying to figure out what the holy hell is HAPPENING over there in Gideon Raff/Tim Kring's Israel/New Mexico/Croatia...every Thursday night, at 10 PM...on USA!).

(See? See?! Even in a This Is NOT Going To Turn Into An About DIG blog post, it turns into a This Actually IS Starting To Turn Into An About DIG blog post. But seriously, I'm stopping now and focusing.)

So. In a nutshell, I had a really bad week, Internet. The weather didn't help, for one--nothing but grey and cold and crap and rainy. Listen: Y'all know I have an inability to deny a good British accent. And y'all know I'm dying to visit the Mother Land. But that does NOT mean I want the Mother Land's weather to come visit ME. And if/when it does, I certainly do NOT want it pitching a tent in my backyard for weeks at a time. Because if I DID want that, know where I'd be living right now? Stoke-on-Tent, which apparently is where--if the world needed an enema--they'd shove the pipe. (Apologies to all the Stoke-on-Tent people...but that enema quote was from one of your own.) (And don't feel bad--in Georgia, we've got Clayton County.)

So the weather sucked. Strike One.

Then I had to go back to work after Spring Break. And post-Spring Break is always: it's Testin' Time. Because it's for 3rd-5th graders and I don't teach those grades, I don't actually have to give anybody The BIG Big Data End Of Year Even Though It's Still Only April And There Are Four Weeks of School Left Test (in some areas this is called the PARCC...Georgia looked at the cost of PARCC and how it was formatted and said: too expensive, too political, and meh...we can do better. And you know what they did? Came up with an expensive, political, poorly formatted big end-of-year test. That tests stamina more than skills, and wait til it goes online and all the squirrely, not quite-abstract-thinker 9 year olds have to type all their essay responses. Should be a fresh day in public education hell when that starts. Well done, people who've never taken a child development class or worked with groups of children growing up in generational poverty with absolutely no home support! Well done.)

I'm absorbing the stress around me, is what I'm telling you. Strike Two.

I don't typically talk about what's going on in my house, because (a) it's not just my story to tell, and so I can only share about 50% of it here and (b) it just makes me really sad because it's just gotten so fucked up. I will tell you it's not abusive; I am loved, he is loved. But it's not a functional love at this point--the disconnect is wide and huge and to cross to the other side now to try to fix it would be like trying to walk a tight rope across the Grand Canyon. Blindfolded. We have been in and out of counselors' offices for 15 years; we have fought and fought and fought to make it work. We love one another immensely; but sometimes? Love is just not enough.

So I am struggling right now--in my work AND my home life, and I'm going to have to make some very huge drastic changes in order to claw my way back to Okayville. These are both internal and external changes, and to make them I need to go on a journey (of sorts), but I'm going to be carrying A. Lot. Of. Baggage. Some of it very out of control.

I think the more out of control one is the home life--because I have a small child. When C and I separated the 2nd time in 2007 (the first time was briefly in 2005), there was no child. And that was really, really, really hard. But now we are going down this road again and taking a child with us, and this has just been incredibly gut-wrenching and painful. We actually made the decision to separate well over a year ago; but the pain involved because of our child has kept us together well past the date we thought we should stay together. This is just an immensely, inordinately, gigantically difficult thing to pull the trigger on. And I never thought I'd be back here again in this hard, dark place. I know why I'm back here again...but that's part of the 50% I can't share publicly.  

So I spend a lot of time consumed by guilt, fear, and worry. Miss M doesn't know what's going on, but she senses the situation is dire and she's attempting to fix it in all the heartbreaking ways only six year olds can bring forth from their open little hearts. 

I'm getting a lot of advice from various different people--some tell me we should stick it out for her sake. And I see why they're saying that. But they also don't live in my house--they don't see the relationship model Miss M is growing up watching. Mommies and Daddies should express love and hold hands and go on dates and enjoy spending time together. This is not what is happening in front of Miss M. She's learning that Mommies and Daddies are friends and care about each other and are civil but are essentially two extremely different people who just can't meet in the middle, ever. I don't want that for her. 

And other people tell me children are resilient, she will adjust and be fine and this is all going to be okay. But can I tell you that she has nightmares about not being able to find her daddy? And that she can alternately be really quite clingy and then suddenly morph into a little Miss Hyde over the most ridiculous things? And that sometimes she MAKES us hold hands and encourages us to kiss or hug or sit next to each other? And that she often begs me to sleep in the same room as Daddy again? And that, when in little Miss Hyde mode, she takes on the role of scapegoat for all our problems?

In other words, I'm not just causing pain to myself and C by leaving...I'm bringing it to an innocent soul who never ever asked for it. I am overwhelmed by sorrow and guilt by this, but for me to stay in the situation would be equally as overwhelming. I am absolutely overwhelmed, most days and hours of the week during which I am awake and some of the hours I'm asleep, too. Which has become another area of stress for me (proper amounts of decent sleep.)

Hey--can I break here for a second and give you some love advice? When you go looking for True Love, please be prepared to accept whatever shows up and love it as is. Don't buy nails and tools and try to cut and bend and saw at it; don't bang on it over and over to get it to fit into your square hole--if you are given a round peg, then love the roundness and accept it was never meant to transform into a square, as deeply as it might want to and as hard as it may try for you. And please (please) promise you won't ever ask another human being to be your mirror; be content with being your own looking glass. And love looking at your beloved's looking glass and embrace what it reflects back to you, with all its dents and splotchy spots and cracks.

On top of all of THAT, I am possessed by concern over being able to be on  my own.  I am the poster child for Procrastination. I am sure, next to the term "Avoidant Behavior Traits" in the DSM V, is a diagrammed picture of me. Plus, I have a well-documented history of forgetting to pay bills. This is because I have the kind of brain that can remember exactly what you said to me at 3:01 PM on June 26, 2004 as we stood in front of a movie theater arguing about whether to see HARRY POTTER, THE NOTEBOOK, or SPIDERMAN 2. But I've been known to forget to pay the cable bill. Just this February I almost forgot to pay my car tags. Literally, I was in the Tag Office 10 minutes before it closed. 

I want to be alone, is what I'm saying...but I remain unconvinced it's a good idea. And yet to stay in my current situation...wouldn't be a horrible fate, because it's safe and the known. But both of us are by various turns miserable, angry, resentful, or just going through motions. And I want more than that for him, me, and particularly Miss M.

That's the worst part of my existence right now. The weather is just something for me to whine about. Participating in mining children for data is giving me tremendous angst and making me question what the hell I was thinking back in 1992 when I declared an Education major. But my home life is completely overwhelming at the moment, coloring a lot of everything. It's a sad, hard situation that I and two other people I love a lot are in. Yet I waffle. Some days I think: this is OK; I can do this for another 12 years if every day were like this. Other days I think: nope, this is very very bad; I can't do this for another 12 weeks, let alone years.

Divorce is hard, love doesn't fix everything, sometimes sorry really IS the hardest word, Sir Elton John, and...divorce is hard. So...Strike Three.

But bad things come in threes, yes? Which should mean I'm good for awhile. And I'm really, really thankful to the creators of DIG for making such an amazingly good show that--for 10 whole weeks of my life--gives me an escape route from my problems (on Thursday nights, USA Network, 10/9 Central). Then Fridays-Sundays I analyze and research it. Mondays-Wednesdays are for harassing all its cast members on Twitter....okay, fine. I really just harass Jason Isaacs. Because he's from England and I've heard that's how they express affection and admiration. Plus, he's not from Stoke-on-Tent or Clayton County, Georgia so he's got a better sense of humor. Thanks, DIG! (on USA.)

Here. This is by Brian Andreas of The Story People. I forgot all about Brian and The Story People until I went searching for some things and found them on Twitter (they have Instagram and Facebook and Pinterest too--I mean, WHO doesn't these days??). These speak to me and comfort me (maybe they will you, too):