Bike Ride Around The World But Not Actually

Blogging has gotten so intimidating lately. Which is stupid. It’s not like anyone here expects quality from me. This is blog not goodly for read.

Moving on!

Growing up, my mom, stepdad and I were fairly active. I loved to rollerblade around the neighborhood. My stepdad was a hockey player (and likes sports in general) since forever, and Mom was a personal trainer so she would help me avoid injuries and taught me necessary techniques for working out in general. Like how to squat correctly, breathing tips, ways to just stay active, etc. So I was very lucky in this respect.

I also remember playing outside by myself very often growing up, and once we moved into a house with a garage and a yard I remember making obstacle courses out of ladders, making tracks for scooter/rollerblades/bike/sprints, then the skip it toy (whatever it’s called), occasionally some hopscotch…

What I’m trying to introduce here is the fact that every once in a while we would go on bike rides. I usually rode my bike around the neighborhood (which is saying something because Omaha is hills hell. Hills everywhere. So good luck biking), but Mom and sometimes my stepdad would go with me on the local bike trail in town, the Keystone trail for you Omaha natives. We lived across the street about 2 miles down from the beginning of the trail, and I remember 2 specific times when we rode, I’m not sure, maybe 6? 7? miles down the way to when I didn’t recognize buildings and street names anymore.

I was around 8 or 9 at the time, I believe.

My grandma lives further down that trail and diagonally a little, so my mom used to say we should take a day trip, pack a lunch, and go visit “Gramma” via biketrail, then have Darrin pick us and the bikes back up that evening.

We never got around to it.

Now that I no longer even own a bike -because it’s not a purchase I can currently afford to make since it’s not a necessity but it is hundreds of dollars -I’d really like to take a similar trip. Even if it’s not specifically to see my grandma, and even if I can’t get a ride back.

It’d be terrifying to go alone, but I don’t know anyone who’d be willing to go with me. Mostly because it’s kind of an difficult affair to convince someone into… what with the hardly talking, desire to ride a lot of miles, needing to own a bike, etc. Plus, I don’t know many people who bike outside of the occasional machine at the gym.

Either way, one day I’d really like to try this on the trail near where I live (Omaha is pretty good for trails. Now I’m by the start of Big Papio trail). And hopefully I can get several miles in without getting anxiety-ridden or dead. 



The Recovery Shame

I’m ’bout to get real real with you guys. It’s been a while since I’ve made a post, and it’s because I thought about being less personal. But I just want to be frank with you guys.

I hate being “recovered.”

I’m making a pause now to let you readers who don’t know me imagine what I mean by recovered. Do I mean from drugs? Gambling? Porn?

It’s all 3.

No it’s not.

It’s eating disorders.

Now, I put the word recovered in quotes up there because though I don’t partake in the daily activities of an actively disordered eater anymore, I still have so many thoughts and bad feelings and bad self-esteem surrounding me that I feel like a cheaty faced loser saying I’m legitimately recovered. I’m more like, I don’t know, in remission. The behaviors aren’t there lately (purge free since May?) but it’s very much an undercurrent.

I’m sure lots, maybe most, of the humans who have recovered from an eating disorder of any kind often think “man, I could easily go back to that. That’d be great. I could be so skinny. Eh, nah.” But what I think a lot of the time isn’t “I could go back” so much as it’s “I should go back.”

Cuz I get a lot of hate. I hate being recovered because I’m chubby now. I shouldn’t care that I’m chubby. I should embrace it and whatever and be happy I’m healthy (not really but whatever) and whatever.

But I’m really upset.

I fucking hate myself.

And there are people who see me at work who may notice the panic in my eyes when I pass the snack bar, who may notice I eat lunch 3 times, and there are friends who I accidentally admit to having 2 separate dinners to… but they wonder why because I’m too fat and I obviously eat too much.

There are those IN THE SAME HOUSEHOLD AS ME who comment on what I eat being unhealthy or that I eat too much or that I should exercise more/better.

These comments come from a good place but damn. Let me pretend to be a normal American. Jesus.

I hate it. And I hate it.

I hate being a regular chubby first-world unhealthy loser. I hate liking fast food and beer. I hate thinking about food ALL THE TIME whether I’m trying to lose weight or not.

I hate how I let the idea of being a happy healthy person made me fat.

I’m legitimately overweight now. And it makes me so sad. And I try not to let it. I think, hey. I don’t have like serious weight-related issues, right? I’m fine? I’m smaller than some people, right? Does that matter? Should I even make that comparison? God what should I do? What is normal? WHAT IS RIGHT WHAT IS HEALTHY WHAT AM I DOING I’M KIDDING MYSELF I GOT FAT.

I meet new people and I just know they’re judging me for being fat. Like you don’t know me! I was skinny once, too! Shut up! Shut up those thoughts! Stop it!

This could be a post about how fat-shaming is bad but it’s not that it’s me hating myself for letting myself get to a non-disordered weight.

It was so much easier not kidding myself into thinking I had a healthy mind.

Right now, I’d take the bloodshot eyes, the inflamed esophageal lining, and the lying and wasting over this shame and remorse.


Think Happy Thoughts

We are cursed. Every attempt at a meaningful connection is thwarted by the hex of skewed affection. It’s a dark shade between us. A translucent wisp of hate taints my vision so I turn away.

It shouldn’t have been this way. Its diseased essence overwhelms those around it. A dirty, supernatural, and essentially evil cloud surrounds it and makes it untouchable. Nothing worth sense can reach this thing, this monster engulfed by its own morbid essence of self.

I’ve tried! I’ve sort of tried. I tried at least a little. I think you did. I know you’ve tried. It’s just impassable. It’s cursed. There’s no hope. No reason in this love forsaken realm. So I’ll leave you now. I’ll be released into a life of wondering what could have been. Because it could have been. But we are cursed.

Look at this Photograph

Okie dokie so I’m taking the plunge with today’s topic. Belive it or not, I don’t enjoy sounding like a whiney whine-face. I do like whining, though….


Anyway I wanted to blog about my issues with my mom and my dad’s divorce. This really ought to be old news by now, seeing as they  divorced almost 24 years ago, but I feel like it affected a lot of my personality and traits and important skills like coping and knowing how to trust and all that and stuff. Mostly because I was around 1 year old and I literally grew up with it. (And I still had to deal with fighting, damnit. So much fighting).

There’s a lot to the story because they both got remarried within a year, and I have what I would call “a curious history” with all 4 of my parents. It’s mostly because I turned into a crazy bitch near the end of high school. Plus there are the (half) siblings and the ≈20 living arrangements I’ve acquired on top of the occasional verbal bloodbaths that ensued between 9 of the possible pairings of these 4. Maybe even more so if you take into account the incredibly tense vocal-almost-phsycial-half-the-time wars between just 2 of them. And if you include my yelling and being yelled at 🙂

Basically from the time I started developing a clear memory my mom was dating/engaged to my stepdad. Then, by the time I was 6, my dad married my stepmom out of the blue. Surprise! My mom and stepdad married less than a year after that. I only got to be at one wedding. But boy did I look good in that flower girl dress! And somewhere there is VHS video footage of me stealing swipes of frosting from the wedding cake during the reception. And I thought I was sneaky. Imagine all the fun I’d have had at 2 weddings within a year! If I could turn back time… (is my issue with this apparent yet?)


I lived with Mom mostly forever, then at 16 I did that thing that teenagers do and decided to switch parents. Then my mental breakdown really happened and I moved back in with Mom because I make no sense and wanted to be 3 again cuz I was a hopeless dipshit and everything sucked and suddenly I was 23 still living with Mom. That simply wouldn’t do. Now you’ll find me in (how funny, in’t it?) Matt’s mom’s basement. Almost 24. No big deal, right? RIGHT?!

After all this time, and all this history and all of these parents having to (try to) cooperate at least sometimes for school stuff and music stuff and stuff and I only own 1 physical picture of my mother, father, and myself.


It’s from my baptism in 6th grade. Though I wasn’t the happiest camper that day (another story; I won’t bore you more than what’s necessary for this 1 post ;)) I insisted that I get this photo.

I believe I got one at my wedding, but I can hardly remember because I was such an anxious wreck and I got really drunk that night so I only remember the more wedding-related things.

(Like the fact that Matt was really trying not to cry but he’ll never admit it. Or were his eyes peeing?)

Even when I made a card for my mom and my dad after the wedding as a “Thank you for Birthing Me” present, it physically felt weird to write “Mom and Dad.”

Call me weird, but I find that weird. It’s uncomfortable to put my birthers next to each other even on paper, for biscuits’ sake!

Now, I’m not saying I wish they were back together. No offense, Mom and Dad, but you would kill each other off. Honestly I don’t even remember really wishing this getting back together. I had my “father figure” from the time I was around 2 years old (thanks Darrin), so I never really felt like I was missing out? I just got bonus family on Tuesdays and holidays and stuff!

Then came the step-mom-into-the-story days at age 6 then I got to go on a plane by  myself 654,665,465 times a year and that was fun. Plus all the presents. I even got to miss a lot of school around the holidays. School hated me. And I, it.

(One time I got in trouble on a test because the teacher was reading us the questions and then we were supposed to answer, but I was 3 pages ahead of everyone, because DAMNIT woman I was in FIRST GRADE I KNEW how to READ.)

How many tangents does it take to make me feel like I’ve made a good blog post?

Like, a hundred.

I wish I didn’t hold this divorce grudge. Or rather, I wish it didn’t affect me as much as it did. And I wish divorce wasn’t so fucking prominent.

Matt, I swear to potato, you’re stuck with me.



I’m On Top Of The World

Everything is going great. I’m exhausted, but so? Down one-point-four. I’m clean, I’m ready to go to work, and I’m pouring my soymilk into the glass thirty-five when suddenly I’m reminded externally that I’m an inconsiderate low-life incapable of common decency. I pour my breakfast down the drain negative thirty-five and spin the cap on the carton for 5 minutes staring at the sink and wow look how normal and well-adjusted I am.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Birthmas

It’s safe to assume the holidays are a great time of the year. They give us a lot to look forward to. These two months are full of putting up pretty and festive things, shopping bargains, presents, and lots of big meals with loved ones (or those we have to pretend to love). Even for families who aren’t very well off, or people who don’t celebrate the more commercialized holidays, the atmosphere around this time of year feels warm and welcoming.

I look forward to the late winter months because it’s also my birthday season. I have Thanksgiving, then Hanukkah, then birthday and Christmas (Matt called it “birthmas” once and it stuck). I grew up having all three of these present-type holidays bunched together every year, and I’m used to having to have a burst of seeing relatives and eating a lot of food and cake and then getting back into the swing of life after the new year.

When I stopped being shuffled between parents houses (four separate families was a pain to schedule around, but worth it) during the holidays was about when I started working. Most of my jobs up until this point were very accommodating and didn’t make me work on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Luckily, I managed to scrape by only working 1 black friday so far.

This year, however, I’m working at a 24 hour pharmacy and I work Thanksgiving, all but 1  night of Hanukkah, and chances are I’ll also work Christmas and Christmas Eve.

All of this wouldn’t be such a huge deal to me, except for my desire to be a better family member. I’ve been open about how I feel like a total failure when it comes to being a relative. I come off as uncaring and unwilling to contact my relatives. All of them have always been nothing but good to me, and in high school I shrugged them off. Now I have the chance to make things a little better and maybe travel a little for the holidays because I’m old enough. Also, I can buy better gifts now or send cards to prove I’m a responsible, caring, adult family member. Instead, I most likely won’t get to see anyone for the big holiday get togethers I’m used to going to every year.

My mom and stepdad’s side of the family are having Hanukkah celebrations right after Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, and I work from early afternoon to late at night. I bought presents for people and everything. It’s also my uncle’s birthday.

The holidays are supposed to be time to see family. We’re supposed to get along and enjoy the season. Generally, I’d be taking a break from a majority of stress and feelings of inadequacy. This year, I don’t get that. I feel cheated.

I just have to remind myself that I graduate in the spring and will be working from home next year. Next year will be better. Next year maybe I’ll get a real holiday season to spend with my families.

Oh, Happy Hanukkah!

Home is Where my Cat Is

One time I tried to count how many houses/apartments I’ve lived in and it was right around twenty. This is easy to do when you have two families, but it’s something that’s always been uncomfortable for me.

I have a few friends who have honestly lived in their houses forever. They were born there and didn’t leave until they went to college or whatever it is they decided to do. What does that even feel like?

My problem here is that I’m still struggling with a sense of home. I don’t need to pack my bag to visit Mom or visit Dad anymore, but I do stay at the fiancé’s now and then and it’s difficult to explain the weird brain feelings that accompany moving around a lot.

Obviously this isn’t a huge deal; lots of people move plenty of times for the military or because they love travel. My mom even lived over seas when my grandpa was in the Air Force. My dad travelled and moved often because of the navy. Several families I know love just to find a better or more affordable place.

One day it’s my goal to have one house forever. This is a challenge because I don’t think I want to stay in the Omaha metro forever, but the fiancé does. And I don’t know where it’d be best to move to. I can’t see the future. I’m getting antsy here, and I’m ready to settle down for the first real time in a place I can truly call my home.

(I found this on Tumblr and thought it explained things well.)