Sunday, January 12, 2014

Sometimes it takes a breakdown to put yourself together...

Last Tuesday I got up, and got on the phone with my local non-profit, trying to find a spot in an area shelter. My county has a horrible attitude when it comes to the poor, and they treat us like shit. I've been very vocal about it, and I no longer care who hears me complain. I did not wake up one day and decide that I just wanted to mess up my life, because welfare would be there to catch me. I remind these idiots down at the department of family services, that each of the people they deal with has a story. There was a series of events that led to their falling into poverty, and that each person deserves respect. The next person who says the slang word "babydaddy" to me will get slapped, I'm serious. I do not have a "babydaddy." My son has a father, yes I know who he is, and no, I did not need Maury Povich to find that out for me. I have this uncanny ability to keep track of my sexual partners. It's amazing.


The holidays were hell, as usual. My mother went off on her usual rant about how she saves the world 364 days a year, and she just can't do it at Christmas. I was lucky she put up the tree. She did it for my son, and I'm grateful for the tremendous effort she put forth to do so, because the kid was enchanted. So much so, that he didn't even touch the thing. He just stared at it. He got a little magic out of Christmas. He's still terrified of Santa, but he got to stare at a pretty tree and open his gifts. And I actually got to buy him some good ones this year, which made me feel really good. But the holidays sucked. They tend to when you have no family to spend them with. It's been that way for me for 17 years.

My mother stole my family from me with lies about how I was trying to sleep with her fusty old husband. Um, that man is 42 years my senior, and if he's still capable of having an orgasm, I'm sure only dust comes out. I can do better. Plus, when these rumors started, I was an innocent girl of 15, who had only had one kiss with one boy. So...dear aunts who believed all these horrid tales about was I supposed to be seducing him? Perhaps you were thinking back to your own sordid activities at that age. Whatever.

My mother and her pimp sat me down ten days before Christmas and told me I needed to leave. In the middle of winter. With a child. This was a complete 180 from the nonsense whispered in my ear by my mother earlier in the year about how my son and I could come and stay with them in their second house (of five). I never intended to go live with them, but I appreciated the sentiment. According to her, her husband didn't want me to go stay in a shelter. So imagine my shock when I hear this mess, and at Christmas, no less. Not only that, but I had to write my own eviction letter. My mother had convinced herself that if I had a special note, the county would just take me off her hands. I have a special loathing inside myself for this woman.

Add that, the nonsense with my soon-to-be ex-husband, and several weeks of an unending retail nightmare, complete with pop Christmas "hits" regurgitated into my ears for hours on end, and I was not in good shape during the holidays. I was relieved to wake up and find out it was finally New Years day. Thank goodness. I can start over. Only I can't seem to get in touch with the shelter people, and my "worker" (I don't know why they call her that, she doesn't do anything, much less think) at the county is just sending me form after form, while not really doing her job when it comes to me. No long-term work is lined up, and I'm terrified.

Tuesday rolls around, and I talk to the intake specialist for the shelter. She tells me that their shelter program is only 30 days, they require me to take ANY job, and they believe that I can fully support a child working at McDonald's. Um...that would only cover rent. She told me to take initiative, after she told me that the shelters were full down here in my area of the county, and that she would have to "ship me" out of county. I refuse to move, because my son has seen enough fluctuation in his few short years on this earth. Dealing with his father has had him moving on average once a year. I have endured my mother so that he could have one full year at the same school. The stability has worked wonders for him. At least in that area. The stress has been hard on me, and that has trickled down to him. And I'm so sorry for that.

After getting off the phone with the intake specialist at the shelter, I go and tell my mother that the shelter is full. The woman actually rolled her eyes at me. Like I was doing this to inconvenience her. Another knife to my heart. I took it in stride as best I could, and went upstairs to get ready to go grocery shopping. Only to find out that my SNAP hadn't renewed, because the County had dropped the ball. Again. They do this to me every year at renewal time. They honestly think that we have steak and lobster stockpiled somewhere. As I was sitting in the psych ward cussing them out, I told them that this was not the case.

Well, finding out that I only had $7 to buy food with pushed me over the edge. I went to 7-eleven to buy milk for my son, but I barely made it there. I remember sitting on the ground sobbing, thinking that it was barely ten degrees outside, and that my butt should be cold, but it wasn't. I had no idea what to do. People knew what I was going through, but no one seemed to be offering a place to stay (I'd pay for a room), or food, or anything. People knew. I'm one of those "facebook drama queens." Yes, I put my mess out there, because that's the only way I can reach my family, and many of the people I wonder if I should call my friends. People know. If they read my feed, they know.

I started feeling suicidal, which was nothing new. I've struggled with those feelings ever since I was 12. I started cutting at 12, and experimenting with drugs in my mother's medicine cabinet, because I wanted to escape my mother's beatings (she used to strip me naked and beat me whenever she needed a stress release). I hadn't even learned the words "depression" or "suicide" yet. I only knew I wanted the pain to stop. I wouldn't learn those words until two years later, and doing so would save my life. It would just take a long time, I guess.

By the time I got home I was half out of my mind. I was a mixture of angry, sad and hopeless. I fixed my son lunch and told my mother to call his father to come get him. I packed a bag and went to my local mental health clinic. I checked myself into their emergency facility and told them I needed to go to the hospital. It was the best choice I could have made, because I had enough cash left for some vodka and sleeping pills. And that had crossed my mind.

By the time I got checked into the hospital, I was calmer. I'm still pissed that my local hospital keeps labeling me as a drug seeker, due to my migraines. They were the ones who began the treatment regimen using narcotics. I show up every six weeks, and twice a year my migraines flare up so that I show up two or three times in one week. That does not make me an addict. One of the ER docs has been putting nasty notes in my file to the point where my attending psychiatrist put in a hand-written caveat making me promise I wouldn't take any narcotics or anti-anxiety meds while there. Luckily my panic attacks had stopped. I'm tired of this label. Even my PCP has written me off because of it. But I shall deal with that later.

The four-and-a-half days I spent in the psych ward were a much-needed thing. I wasn't sad; more than anything I was just tired. I didn't realize how much of a toll all the stress, the depression, stress, anxiety and lack of sleep had taken on me. I knew I was not my true self. I could see it in my son's eyes, and it hurt me. I could hear it in my tone of voice when I spoke to him. I could see it when he cowered in front of me. I am ashamed of that. That is not the mother I want to be, and that is not the mother that child deserves. I'm so glad he's coming home to a new person. It's because of my son that I went to the hospital. It's because of my son that I've remained alive all this time. I hope that one day I can tell him and show him just how much I love him. When he's an adult, I want to sit him down and tell him how he saved his mama's life, and how much he means to me.

I learned not to be ashamed of my mental illness while in the psych ward. I'm not even ashamed to say I was there. It is what it is. Depression is an affliction that does not discriminate. I saw grown men reduced to tears, people of all races, age groups and nationalities. And I saw something in the eyes of every person there who was fully cognizant: the desire to have a friend. I made a few. I intend to keep up with them. There was a lot of laughter in that ward, strangely enough. A lot of hugs (even though touching was forbidden). We encouraged each other, and wished each other well when each one left.

That breakdown was a long time coming, but sometimes you have to break a bone to reset it properly. I feel whole for the first time since I was a little girl. I feel like I want to live for the first time since I was a little girl. And it's not the meds.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Is it all a conspiracy?

So my husband has been 90 days sober. Well, he relapsed one day and had a beer, but that was to be expected. I also expect that he will have more times like that, and that it will take much longer than a year for him to be sober for a year. So I'm keeping my legal protection in place for now. His sponsor said that was a good idea. Even Steve agreed. But I have also seen him agree to many things to get what he wants. It's called manipulation. I just see a more humble Steve, now that he's sleeping out in the open.

I have re-instated visitation, but I'm the one meeting up with him. I tried to reach out to his mother, and that woman was so cold. So I shall do as she asks: I will never contact her again. And as far as Steve's daughters...the one who feels that she knows everything, I shall leave her alone entirely, and advise my son to do so as well. She is a bad influence. When she grows up a little, she can get to know my boy. I sense that her sister is going down the same path, so I am starting to distance myself.

But here's the thing: the only thing that Steve's "family" has done so far was to get him down to NC for his daughters' graduation. They have not offered to help with food, toiletries, shelter, anything. I've been doing that. They haven't gone to AA meetings with him. I've been doing that. And his first wife sure as hell never let him see his kids much. But he's seen plenty of Steven. He will continue to do so, as long as he remains sober.

I am in contact with Steve's sister. Steve claims to not want anything to do with his mother at this point, given how she has acted towards me. What's hilarious, is that this woman keeps trying to implicate me in some crime, as she thinks that this is all my troubles with Steve amount to. She doesn't get that I could be charged criminally for falsifying evidence to attempt to get him in trouble. They prosecute for things like that here in Virginia. She's just mad, because she thinks her pride has been assaulted, or something like that. Whatever, lady. As far as Steve's sister goes, he's wary of her, but if she's genuine, I think he'll be grateful.

But I do know this: all of the people currently bashing me...not one of them is doing anything other than running their mouth. So if and when Steve gets back on his feet, it will be known how he did it. Not with their help.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Can't Win for Losing

I had posted something about my blog going private, and it still is. I would honestly like a safe place to be able to record my thoughts and be supported by those who truly care for me. The continued abuse and character defamation from people (even children, be they 18 or not) who only have a small portion of the story that comes with my family drama is hurtful and detrimental to my emotional progress. At the end of the day I have to be there for my son, and I am hoping that one day there will be just something, some part of that elusive thing called happiness, that I can call my own. All I have ever wanted was to be loved. I have known way too much abuse from people who I should have been able to trust, and what's worse, their "family" groups expect me to be silent about it. I will not. I simply will not.

I took my  homeless husband some food yesterday. Before having done so, I was struck with the idea (a very stupid one, I now see) of reaching out to his mother (who blames me completely for where he is in life right now) and asking her to take him in. His initial response to my approaching him was one of wariness, which I understand. I gave him some food, and asked him to go up to his parents and ask them if he could stay with them until he got on his feet.

The letter I sent to his mother was an impassioned one. I will not quote it here. But her response was evil and cold. This woman has blamed me since the first time I had to climb out of the bedroom window with Steven to safety, because the cops blamed me as well. She has seen my every explanation as a justification. What's strange is that while I am now in the place of the first wife who she used to say horrible things about, along with that wife's children, neither my husband's first wife nor his mother have done anything to help him. And it's not about letting him hit rock bottom. He's done that already. One of his daughters is upset about my blog, she's naive and caught in tribal mentality. Graduating with honors will not make you wise to the world, sweetie. Since you're reading. I'll leave this up another day or two so you can get your extra special message. You ain't grown. You're just old enough to go to jail for your folly now, without anyone needing to be held responsible for you. That is the only thing that changes when you turn 18. Oh, and you can get tats and piercings. Wow. Really grown up.

I left my home feeling nervous, wondering how my mother-in-law would respond, wondering how Steve would respond, if he would listen. I even gave him my SmarTrip card, so he'd have the fare. I haven't spoken to my mother-in-law in almost two years. Her response to my email was "do not ever send me or my family an email again." Fine. I will do just that. But know this: if anything happens to him before our divorce, I am still his legal next of kin, and you will know nothing. If you try to show up, you will be barred from everything. And since you think I like to call the cops so much, that's exactly what I shall do. Since you couldn't seem to get that I was telling you that your son is sleeping behind a building and needs your help.

This isn't even about her writing him off, she's in contact with him. It's about hating me, because I apparently lied to the cops all these times, and gee, we've progressed that much as a society where cops will listen to a nappy-headed distraught black woman over a calm white man. Yeah.

I'm trying not to feel hateful. I'm trying not to cry, but I do. I didn't ask for my husband to approach me with lies, and he still doesn't get that our marriage is over. He thinks that if we divorce, that we'll just get married again someday. It's not going to happen. If anything, what my mother-in-law is currently putting me through has me thinking I'll never get married again. And it's so ironic that she and the first wife now have me as a common enemy. Like the cops were never called to that other woman's house. Like she never had problems with him. Well, I never cheated on him, I never stepped outside my marriage. Not even emotionally.

I am really losing my faith in people. I'm trying not to. But it's going. The state of Virginia decrees that in spite of my husband's current state and situation, I must co-parent with him. So I am trying. I extended an olive branch, in spite of my pain. Luann can have herself and her family; my son and I are not a part of it. She will never see us. She can keep her money. She honestly thinks that I got with her son looking for money. Newsflash: my parents own five houses. We have one for leisure. My parents have never filed bankruptcy, much less two. Only in her sick little world does she equate black skin with poverty and white skin with the opposite. Only strangely enough, it's the black folks in this situation (my family) that have the money.

Whatever. Simply whatever. As much as it hurts, I'm going to move on. My son has made it as far as he has not because of Luann and her illustrious family, but because of ME. And I'm damned proud of that.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

A Lull in the Storm

Who'd have thought that after all this time, all this turmoil and all this shit (sorry, but it has been shit), that things would finally quiet down a bit? I'm so glad. I am honestly so glad. I'm starting to feel like things might actually work out, and this is a feeling that I don't think I've ever had. I feel like the clouds in my life are parting, and I'm not afraid of the future (right now). I'm hoping that this lack of fear continues, and that I can use this clear space in my life to create my life as I wish it to be.

Today was an entire day that I spent not in pain. It was lovely. After a week spent going back and forth to the ER, this was wonderful. When I'm not in pain I can exercise. When I'm not in pain I can take my son outside to play. When I'm not in pain I'm not aggravated and grumpy, and Steven is so much happier. When I'm not in pain, I'm happier. An entire day with little more than a twinge or two. I could get used to this. But I know the nature of my illness will probably not allow that. So if I can just have more days like this, perhaps the days I have to spend in bed will be less depressing.

Steven is learning by leaps and bounds. He spelled the word "frog" in school the other day. He can arrange the letters of his name to spell his name. He can count, he knows his letters and is learning his colors. He knows which animals make which sounds. He has a keen sense of order; the towel that I lay over the kitchen chair must be laid out properly before he sits on it. We're making potty training progress. He answers my questions, either with a mimicry of the word in the sentence that I use that he recognizes, or with sign language. My child has come out of his shell. He is having a few issues acting out at school, but it's not bad behavior, more like Dennis the Menace type disruption that I'm sure has his teacher tired by the time she gets home. I believe it's because he's wondering where his father is. He's only seen him twice since I cut off visitation. And he will probably never see him again, given the state his father is in. To be honest, I think that is for the best.

Steve has completely and utterly ruined his life. On the 23rd of May, he lost the second apartment that we had together. He's currently pissed because none of the people whose respect he spat on will offer him a couch to sleep on. Not even his AA buddies will do that...if he's even still going to AA. He posts Facebook updates about how wretched he is, and how he should just die, but he's not even trying to use the resources that I gave him before he got put out of the place we were in. What's sad, is that I put down almost four thousand dollars for that place. He used it all up, and left so many of our belongings there. I will never again put myself in a situation like that. Ever. Independence for the sake of Steven is paramount to me now.

I feel for my husband, but I know that he's a sociopathic liar, and that part of his misfortune is his inability to tell the truth. I do believe that he will not live out the year, given how he abused his health so sorely the last year we lived together. I think it's very immature of him to traumatize his children by posting statuses on social networks hollering about people not caring for him. He refuses to admit that he has abused every person who has cared for him, and that is why he is now sleeping at bus stops. I feel cold towards him most of the time; he brought this on himself. But when I think of what his end may very well be like, I do feel a little sad. Still, I have to protect Steven from this. And I dare this damned state to challenge me. What are you going to do, give my child to a homeless man who is so unstable that he would rather spend all day in AA than get a job? Could he not work and then go to a meeting on his off time? Seriously?

My son was fine until he saw that man. Seeing him brought back memories, no doubt. But Steven is too young to understand the level of his father's dysfunction (not to mention we have a protective order covering us against that man!). He will not get it until he is an adult, and I may just erase Steve from his memory. Why hurt my child by giving him the legacy of a drunk batterer with sexual issues? If Steve would have just been honest for once in his life, so much could have worked out for him. But he chose jealousy, he chose lying, he chose theft, and now he's choosing death. I refuse to stand by with my child next to me to watch. Steven will attend no funerals, he will have no more encounters with that man. It's unhealthy, it's traumatizing to his grown children, so imagine how much more it would be to a child who cannot even tell you how he feels. I've been taking extra care to be as gentle, sweet and encouraging with him this weekend (after two weeks of mischief at school), and Steven has responded very well. He just needs a little more TLC than usual I think (he was becoming very independent prior to that damned visit), and he'll be fine. So more snuggles for my little guy. We're making progress. I will NOT allow his drunkard of a father to undo that progress.

I think Steve thinks that if he makes himself pitiful enough, that the courts just won't prosecute him for all that he's done. Newsflash dude: homeless people go to jail all the time. And they find that they have a warm place to sleep, three meals a day and more security than they had sleeping at a bus stop. You're afraid of jail because you're afraid of the perversions that YOU stacked onto something that is completely natural (being gay). You hate yourself, so you do things you have no business doing. Sorry, but the rest of us want to live, so we will be stepping back so that the spray of your self-destruction doesn't hit us. I'm so sorry for you, but we created a child. He has always come first. He will always come first. It's sad that you were even jealous of that.

As for me, in this interlude, I'm thinking of what I wish to do with the next years of my life. It turns out that my parents finally get that I'm sick...and they have expressed such to me. To have that understanding means so much. I get crap every day from people who think that all I want to do is just stay home and sleep. I see it in the eyes of medical professionals, because I insist on walking with my head held high, not showing people how badly I feel that day. I hear it from family members who joke about me just laying around all day. I take care of a child who has more needs than any other kid in this huge family, I am attending school (and doing very well), I have three books in progress that will be published this summer. Someone who sleeps all day could not get these things done. Oh, and I've lost 20 pounds since November. . You can't do that lying in bed eating pizza all day.

Since it's a given that I will probably spend the next few years with my parents, I wish to work on the talents that I let die over the last decade. As well as the few that I have discovered since then. Painting, music and writing. It'll be nice to pursue these things, and who knows, maybe I'll actually be able to shape a career of sorts from them. It would be nice.

Steven has one more year with his current teacher, and next summer my parents plan to sell the house we are living in. We will then move south. I was opposed to this previously, because I thought I would be living in this run-down area only to be left there when my parents moved to a senior community. But if I do get social security, and have a chance to save over the next couple of years, Steven and I can move back to the DC area once my parents fully retire. Or, maybe we'll just stay in Ladysmith and I'll buy one of the houses in that development. The place is peppered with houses for sale. I'm sure I can find a small one for me and the little guy. If we live there, Steven will go to a private school for kids with special needs, because the county doesn't have services for autism. They don't even have a website. They have a little blurb about kids being placed in the "least restrictive environment," but that's about it. Luckily, our neighbor has a son who goes to a private school, and she'll be able to help me figure out what to do. Because I won't have Steven's future sacrificed for anyone's laziness.

The quiet honestly feels nice. I have no desire whatsoever to get into another relationship, I'm fine being single, and I need time to take care of myself. Hopefully I'll get into a health regimen that bears results, and things keep getting better. I hope so. One day at a time.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Loose Cannon

I've been very angry over the past few days. Honestly, I've been pissed for a while, but I don't like the level it's gotten to. There are some things that I simply have no control over, and keeping my anxiety and sense of injustice primed only makes me (and my son by extension) miserable.

Yes, I'm dealing with so many things that aren't fair. Steve has walked through the protective order many times, but it seems like the justice system here just wants to justify his actions by saying that if I do things like assert myself as his next of kin when he's in the hospital (I could just let him rot...), or try to get a few of my belongings before they're thrown on the street, that I'm not afraid of him. So they can't do much more than file a police report. Steve is trying to literally live 286 feet away from me. But he feels it's okay, because it's a  sober house.

It seems to just keep coming. But anger only cripples me. My son needs me. Me, the real parent. I'm just not sure how to cope anymore. And since I don't really have much of a fuse anymore, folks close to me are paying for it.

That's not who I am. Something's gotta give.

On a side note: Steven is in full-fledged potty training. I washed every single thing we own today. Well, almost. I'm just not done drying yet, and I ran out of detergent, I've washed so much. But I can't turn back. He has peed in the closet once, and he dumped an entire roll of toilet paper in the toilet yesterday. I'm teaching him to wipe himself, and I think he just dabbed with the whole roll. I could only laugh. Though we've had our share of rough moments this weekend. And it's only Saturday. Dude. Still, he keeps me going. And he's in bed waiting for me. It's time for him to snore in my ear.

I shall teach him to use less paper.

Kid is fascinated with me. He strokes my eyebrows, my hair... :-)

Friday, April 26, 2013

Lighten up, it's just a joke...

I know that most of my blogs are rants, but this is a huge one today. I've been trying to be calm about the storm that my soon-to-be ex husband has caused in my life, but when I see a man tell me to lighten up about a joke he chose to make about "crazy women" (how men lose lives, freedom, etc...)...

I go off. And he got cursed out.

Lighten up, it's Friday.

You're goddamn right it is. It's Friday. My husband was supposed to report for jail today. A measly 7-day sentence, which he couldn't handle because his parents taught him it was bad to be gay, so he's afraid that communal shower time will get him found out. And you know what? Me, being the saint that I am, I went to him and tried to gently tell him that my son and I would still love him. I don't care if my son has three dads and a mom, let everyone be happy and sane! Too much to ask, I guess.

Yes, it's Friday. And he sits getting pampered in the damned hospital, with no charges against him now. He appealed, due to illness. Illness he's known about for months, while I was eating one meal a day to pay for his insulin. His lawyer is treating me like I'm Manti Te'o, and that this man's written threats to me were all a lie. I am supposed to give a violent, sociopathic drunk access to my special needs child.

Yes, it's all a joke.

It's a joke that it took me 2.5 years to get my local authorities to listen. It's a joke when I see my husband, and every new ally he has (because no one who truly knows him is on his side, not even his family...he's too ashamed to tell them), glares at me indignantly in their white male privilege. How dare I ever speak up, speak out? It's a joke that the police insulted me as a mother, put me and my son out of our house repeatedly (because they couldn't make him leave, he was on the lease). It's a joke that the magistrate didn't even grant me the preliminary protective order when I sent the incriminating email to the precinct in February. It's a joke that one magistrate told me that it wasn't illegal to drink or argue. It's a joke that this idiot doesn't see what the combination of those two things can do in an already violent household. It's a joke that the officer I spoke to in February said he needed to call my husband (how do you have his number?) and "see if it's his email or not." That "we can't do these things in a few hours."

But you can cover your ass in a few hours if it's ascertained that you failed to protect a victim (who is now dead), and the media get a hold of it....I'm laughing out loud. In my head.

It's a joke that I may not be able to recover what things my son and I have left in that apartment. It's a joke that the $3400 I put down on this place has been eaten up, and he might get what little is left of it, after the sheriff locks the place, and the rental company chooses to claim it cost a thousand dollars to steal my furniture....that I can't put in storage because I live off of $300 a month (I'm disabled). It's a joke that this is the second time he has abandoned an apartment full of our things, because without me, his worthless wife (worthless=no income), he cannot pay a single bill.

It's a joke that he was on probation already, under threat of JAIL TIME if he didn't complete the terms. It's a joke that he didn't complete the terms, and ultimately just got charged. It was felt that him pissing his way through a batterer class that doesn't even begin to address violence against women, not to mention drug and alcohol treatment was punishment enough. He saw women in his class who were there for defending themselves, and told me I needed to go with him, that I could learn from it. How funny. He bragged about how he could drink through his alcohol treatment class. It's HILARIOUS that he now has what I call his "handler," his AA sponsor who looks at me like I'm the devil. Well guess what, more funnies to come. I'm in Al-anon, trying to piece my life back together.

It's a joke that this man will probably get disability faster than me. I have been sick for six years; he has imbibed his liver and kidneys to ruin, and will probably lose a foot. So he'll get all this help for being a complete and utter tool. While I am still waiting for the hearing I deserve. I hope all his limbs fall off, I seriously do. Then I can bring my son to see him (after the protective order expires, if he's still breathing in two years) and tell him, "this is what addiction does to you, son."

It's a joke that if my husband were any race other than CAUCASIAN, he'd be under the jail by now, but through theft of federal property, through repeated appearances of the cops to our house, through pinning me to the floor and threatening to kill me, through putting it in writing that he was going to steal my kid and make his face "the last thing" I should see, he has managed to avoid jail time. And yes, that was a long sentence. Deal with it. The fact that appearances have been even on the table each time he has gone off is a joke.The fact that he can even exploit this is a joke. It's a joke that each judge, each lawyer he has looks like him, and because he can at least iron his clothes and shed a tear, they identify with him, and vilify me. It's a joke when both he and his lawyers correct my use of pronouns, when it has been me and me alone who has cared for this child since he was two months old...even with dear old dad (drunk) in the house.

It's a joke that I cannot leave this state with my child without his permission, and that of the court. Even though I have sole custody for now. If I do, I get slapped with criminal charges, and I lose my child. My baby goes back to him, addiction or not. It's a joke that I have to wait until November to file for divorce; even though our marriage ended on the 3rd of December, 2011, when the cops punished me for having a nervous breakdown (they took me to a mental health cuffs with no shoes and half clothed). They gave my frightened child to a clearly drunk man. In their half apology to me later, they admitted that he was drunk.

It's a joke that CPS holds me equally as responsible as my husband for any domestic violence incident, because we have a child in common. essence, I need to just shut up and take it. I should have been psychic and seen who he was, but since I didn't achieve that, I need to just cower in a corner and hope that he doesn't kill me.

It's a joke that there are people stupid enough to say, "why don't you just leave?" Do you have room at your house? Because I could not get into any shelter (I wasn't battered ENOUGH), my family has no clue, and homeless shelters have waiting lists here. So I'm with someone who is abusive in a completely different way. So funny....haha.

What the hell?

This is funny? I need to lighten up? No, you need to get real.

But here's what's funny. Here's what truly puts a smile on my face: Karma.

Dear Husband,

Your health is failing. Your family has abandoned you. Your colleagues are embarrassed to have known you (but not me). You have three criminal charges on your record in less than six months. Your autistic, non-verbal son started talking, counting, saying his letters and proving his genius when he got away from you. He hugs EVERYONE now, instead of stimming and running away. All of this, the opposite of what he did when you were kicking dishes across the house and hiding beer bottles in the bushes.

And I will move on. Taking out at the knees every male (and female) I see who just doesn't get that this is an issue. One day at a time I will completely re-build my life. I see that now. For several months I have only been thinking of escaping the other personality disorder in my life, but I have since learned how to draw boundaries, and they're surprised. You are surprised that you can't come near your child but for two hours a month for the next two years.

Domestic violence is not funny. And YES women abuse men. But given the gender inequality that has been in place ever since settled farming, it's a fact that women have it far worse. We are told to call numbers, to speak up for ourselves...yet when we do, we hit walls. In court, in front of the police. At our jobs. In society.

So if you want to joke about this, don't do it around me. And the person who did this just told me that "it's not about you and your problems." You are right. It's not about me. It's about me and every PERSON like me, man, woman and child who have literally lost everything because of the true crazy people in this country. Not bitchass whiny men who got their paint jobs keyed for sleeping around on their women.

So lighten up. I've simply corrected your stupidity. You don't have to whine about it. It's not about you, it's about the collective idiocy of you and every fool like you.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

A New Hobby

I've been looking for ways to make the time pass, while I'm in limbo. Here's what I've come up with.

I painted this tonight. I haven't put a brush to paper since kindergarten. It looks better in the photo, but I'm still proud of it. It's a start.

The pink ones are supposed to be cherry blossom trees. I'm in a cherry blossom mood right now, with all fo them blooming. Yay spring.

The teal ones are cherry blossoms as well, overlaying what are supposed to be fans. Shoot, I may try painting fans. Who knows.

I started experimenting with these things as a way to supplement my as of yet non-existent disability income. If I can make a new career path out of this, it would be wonderful.

But at least it's something to take my mind off my demons. I'm capable of something.