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.

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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….

Damnit.

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?)

Ahem.

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.

One.

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.

 

 

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.)

Mother Nature

So, much to my fiance’s disapproval I would love to one day have a youngling all my own. He keeps telling me it won’t happen. I figured we’d just cross that bridge when we’re financially secure enough to get there. The problem lately is that I feel that thing that they talk about in movies, I think. The biological clock, I guess. It’s starting to tick in me, but the rest of me knows nothing about my life is anywhere near appropriate for planning children. Even though, there are signs pointing to my wanting kids right now deep down.

First off, let’s briefly touch the physical stuff. My certain moon cycle events have gotten so severe I’ve had to start taking over the counter medicines for the first time because the cramping is more than I can handle during a work day. I’ve NEVER had such distracting symptoms. Ok, enough of that. Just know that they’re getting progressively more miserable.

Secondly, the darn dreams won’t let up. I thought my dream about having 12 babies a few months ago was the first and last of the childbearing dreams. Nope. I’ve had countless toddlers, teenagers, and infants between the hours of 12 am and 10 am this last month it’s just silly. And, oddly enough, most of the same dreams also feature cats in some way.

Last but not least, I’m finding pictures and videos of babies and toddlers much more hilarious and worth watching. The inside of me really wants an ankle biter to call mine. It’s such a bad idea right now.

My mom and stepdad had my little sister when I was 13, my brother when I was 15, and my dad and stepmom adopted my other little sister when I was 17. I’m no stranger to living with little ones and most of the terrors and joys that come with it. I know I am perfectly capable of being a good parent because I had practice with those three. I actually offered to change diapers and feed. I was there for first baths, first words, and first steps. I enjoyed teaching them adorable things (“Bees make honey!) and hilarious things (“Purple cows make purple milk?”). I coddled and I disciplined and I showed off wallet sized pictures to anyone willing (or not) to look.

We’re totally not ready for kids. Silly womanhood. It’s getting ahead of me. I’m good to just stick with cats for now!