Dissection of a Tattoo

I just had only my second tattoo ever inked onto my right wrist. Tattoos are such a wonderful and personal way to express yourself. The message a tattoo image conveys may be very straight forward (such as an admiration for a particular character, musician, quote, etc…) while others hold a deeper meaning that requires further analysis.
Mine may seem direct with its meaning, but every aspect of it was specifically chosen to reflect my mindset.
I picked the word “courage” as a reminder to myself that I need to focus beyond any daily struggle with which I may have to cope. My battle with depression has overwhelmed me at times in recent months. There are many things contributing to this, but my long-standing inability to allow myself to truly relax and to stress about practically everything certainly doesn’t help. It requires courage to fight through these moments when I’m feeling like there’s nothing in my life worth fighting for. Trust me, that’s a truer definition of courage than most would realize. I’ve always been truthful with those I’m close to about nearly everything. I am guilty, however, of brushing off their concerns with an “I’m okay/ alright” or “everything’s fine”. There have been so many days where I’m weary of fighting so hard and having nothing change; of just wanting to not be here struggling with the everyday bullshit anymore. And yes, that means exactly what you think it means. Sorry, but there’s no point in writing this if I’m not completely open and honest about these thoughts/ feelings. I’ve made “always” promises to a select few people as well and that still carries weight with me.
The next component of my tattoo was the semicolon. It was adopted by The Mental Health Association in 2013 as a symbol to help promote awareness and aid in the fight against the stigma attached to mental health issues. A semicolon is used when a writer could have ended a sentence, but chose not to. It has since become a very popular subject matter for tattoos. Knowing this, I wanted to incorporate it into my own design, but with more personalization. I chose to make the period of the semicolon a heart because I firmly believe that my empathy and compassion are the very best parts of me and a heart symbolizes those elements. The purple splotch of color is representative of several ideas. It also happens to be my favorite color. It resembles a drop of paint which speaks of my creativity and love of art. The purple color and heart together give remembrance to the Purple Heart which is awarded to military individuals for their bravery. I do believe myself to be brave otherwise I wouldn’t still be here battling my demons.
Lastly is my choice of the font style. I love the flow of cursive writing and it definitely looks beautiful when used as tattoo script. The problem was that anyone who truly knows me realizes that it really isn’t me. I’m generally blunt and more straightforward when conversing with someone. The typewriter style font I chose suits this personality trait better than flow-y, loopy cursive lettering would have. It also helps showcase my love of reading by resembling the printed word.
Listen, I understood how difficult it is to be around and interactive with a person struggling with depression. And I know that everyone has their own problems and I don’t ever want to be a burden to those I care about. My hope is that the constant, visible reminder of this tattoo will help me overcome my more difficult days. It also helps to know that I have the most amazing support group in those I call my friends. I hope I make it abundantly clear to each of my friends how vital they are to me. They’re the fuel for my continuing ability to keep pushing forward. I love you ladies.

My Mom

Today is May 3, 2015 and my mother is celebrating her 81st birthday. She was, is and will continue to be the most significant woman in my life. Many people aren’t blessed enough to have their parent(s) remain so vital in their life for such an extended length of time.
My father gave me my love of movies, baseball, my facial features and my temper, but everything that I like about myself comes from my mom. She would do anything for anyone just because it’s the right thing to do. She has such strength of character and inspires me in ways she can’t imagine.
I rarely get to see her as she lives with and cares for an even more elderly relative. There’s just no quit in her and she’s the perfect example of how I’d like to be. She had her annual physical earlier this week and was given a clean bill of health. Her thyroid and blood clot issues appear to be well under control and her blood work looked good. Honestly, she’s in far better health than I am.
I know that I can call her whenever I like and without even trying she makes me feel better. We usually just talk about what she’s been up to and recipes. We both love to cook and are self trained at it. I never end a conversation with her without saying “I love you”.
I don’t tell my mom about how bad my fibromyalgia is becoming or how severe my depression hits. She’s already lived through her own struggles and I don’t see any reason to concern her about things she’d be unable to change. My mom has more than earned to right to simply enjoy her golden years. Just by her being the type of person she is constantly inspires me to strive to do better, to be better and do things unselfishly.
On today, her birthday, I wish her continued health and happiness. Thank you, mom for your unflinching faith in me. I love you.

I used to really despise that so much of my own happiness depended on how my friends were feeling. But now, honestly,  it’s the only thing that makes me feel connected to anything anymore. The only thing that helps me feel human. I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud. It all feels forced, for appearance sake, so people won’t ask me how I’m actually doing. Knowing how worse off others are with what they have to deal with just makes me feel selfish and stupid. It’s a shitty fucking choice. Feel everything……or medicate and feel absolutely nothing at all.

I’m tired. In every conceivable way the human body can be tired, I am. Physically and mentally. I have no idea how to “turn off” and recharge. I’m too tired to even cry about how tired I am. The new meds aren’t working – they’re making me lightheaded and nauseous. I’m tired of hitting the reset button. All this holding steady and holding on is making me…yeah, you guessed it – tired.

I feel like “the needy, unstable one” that everyone just allows to hang around because they’re afraid I’ll break and they don’t want that on their conscience. I don’t feel like a part of anything. Yeah, it’s “that” kind of day.

Shit I Hate

I am not, by my nature, a positive person. Too much happened to me at an age where I lacked the skills to properly cope with them. My self esteem is riding shotgun in a car where my trust of others is behind the wheel. That “car” has been speeding away from me at a record pace since I was 13 years old. Hope it runs out of gas or off a cliff soon. Crash and burn, fucker!
There’s a lot of shit I hate. I mean, I’m trying not to be a negative person, but I’m incredibly emotional and what I’m feeling is usually easily read on my face.
For example, I hate trying to explain depression to someone who thinks that it’s a controllable situation and that I need to “just think positive thoughts” or “choose to be happy”. Like I’d honestly choose to become enveloped in an unshakeable blackness that clouds my judgement and quiets me beyond reason. Chatting with friends can be an adventure in fighting back tears. Or not. Awkward.
I hate that the mother of an amazingly wonderful friend is battling cancer. It hurts me to my core to know how much her and her mother are made to deal with in her struggle for wellness.
 I hate that several people that I love deeply about are dealing with serious health issues and chronic pain. I want to “Doctor” the hell out of them and make it all better.
I hate that a friend I adore is struggling with demoralizing heartbreak over someone not even remotely worthy of her huge heart, tender soul and exquisite beauty. Psst – listen up, lady. The one who’s meant to hold your heart is still out there. Don’t stop looking for him.
I hate that an astoundingly awesome friend feels trapped by her situation. I wish so much for her to be free and living the live she yearns of for herself. She deserves all the happiness her heart could hold.
I have a friend who is gorgeous, incredibly funny and so caring towards others. Yet, I hate that she’s been brainwashed from a young age to feel stupid and ugly. The good attributes I just listed are ALL true, ya nerdy, smiley, Moose-loving fangirl!
I hate that a truly wonderful friend who was trying to warn others of the possible deceptive behavior of someone was ridiculed and mocked beyond reason. Her intent was only to alert and have people question the shady goings on. Being made to look stupid? Add that to my “Shit I Hate” list, as well.
I hate that my family treats me as an outsider. I found out about my mom’s recent hospitalization 7 hours after the fact through my sister’s Facebook status post. I guess a phone call or even a quick text was too much to ask for. P.S. – I hate Facebook.
I respect and admire Laurie Holden so much and hate that I will, most likely, never have the opportunity to tell her so in person.
I hate that I work my fucking ass off at a labor intense job while dealing with fibromyalgia. And that said job also leaves me struggling financially.I’m killing myself for this?!
I hate the area I live in. My heart still yearns to return to Georgia which won me over after only 4 days there last summer.
I hate that the people I hold closest to my heart all live on my computer and too far away to make getting together easy.
I hate mornings in general and I’d be a night owl if I could. I hate watermelon.  Yeah, you read that right – hate it. I hate butterscotch. The smell alone makes my stomach do flip flops. Most of all, I HATE that my local food stores STILL don’t have the chocolate covered Lay’s potato chips! Get your shit together Walmart!
Peace. I’m out.

Worthy of….

   My apologies. I kind of abandoned this account after my last post. I really didn’t intend on not returning for so long. The truth is I was overwhelmed by the response I received from everyone. The amount of love & support given to me has made such a positive impact in my life. There’s no way I could properly convey how much all of that has meant to me.  Having given thanks for that, on to the topic that brings me back here now.
  I spent the better part of an evening trying to console a friend who had a misunderstanding with someone they’re deeply in love with. Harsh words were spoken & my friend was upset & fearful that this other person would disappear from their life. Our conversation was completely in texts & I could still “hear” the anguish in their messages to me. I was crying along with my friend in my pathetic attempt to comfort them.
   It was in the midst of our convo that I was struck by a revelation. This person spoke so passionately of their love & concern for the other that I began to realize a harsh truth about myself. I have never been “in love”. Ever. Yes,  I’ve been in a couple relationships, but not once did I feel passion like that my friend spoke of in regard to their feared lost love.
   I’ve never longed for someone so deeply that all my thoughts were of them. That to think of them made my heart beat faster. That to imagine my life without them would cause my breath to be stolen from me. I’ve known & felt the love that someone has for their family & friends, of course. But this burning desire to be with the person who “completes you” has continued to elude me.
   I thought myself incapable of feeling a love so deeply that it felt as if my soul was connected to another’s. Then as I continued to try to console my friend, another revelation struck me. I knew that even though I had never experienced this type of love, I am wholly capable of it. I’ve never given

myself a real chance at that kind of love. I’ve spent my life being to guarded & afraid of being hurt or used to allow myself to be open to it.
   Surely the anguish my friend was struggling with was because the feeling you get when everything is right in a relationship is so intensely wonderful that you’re willing to push through such painful episodes. To fight with everything you have to help love return to that blissful state. Who wouldn’t want that for themselves?!
   I may never experience this type of love. Maybe the knowledge that I’m actually capable of it when I feared I never could be will be enough to sustain me. Life’s a crap shoot. You’ve got to be willing to risk everything to get anything. I understand that now & my friend helped me realize this truth. In my friend’s despair they helped me grow yet again. I hope my friend realizes how much I care for them & how hard I’m praying that everything works out in their quest for love.
   On a side note, I may not be the prettiest or smartest, but I have a huge heart, tons of compassion, love sports, am an exceptional cook & oh yeah, I may have learned a few tricks in my 46 years. If you know what I mean 🙂
   Peace. I’m out.

Link

I should begin by telling you that this post is the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. The decision to share this story was not made lightly. It has only been through conversations with other on Twitter and through DMs that I’ve drawn the courage to share it at all. Why share it if it’s so difficult to tell? Because I’ve been living and dealing with this issue for 30 plus years. Just me, by myself, too ashamed to tell anyone. The one person I confided in, my father, either couldn’t or wouldn’t believe me. Maybe he wrestled with his own demons over the subject. I’ll never know because we never spoke of it again and he passed away in 1997. What I see as his betrayal of my trust set in motion my inability to trust anyone. I used anger as a defense mechanism to safeguard myself. If people were too afraid to talk to me, I didn’t have to worry about anyone hurting me or letting me down. I really didn’t care that most people thought I was a bitch. Protecting my own feelings was more important to me. The truth is I’ve always been incredibly compassionate, but I couldn’t allow for that part of me to be seen. So what happened to make me such an emotional cripple?
In the summer of 1980, I was 13 years old. Like most 13 year olds I felt protected and secure in my world. When you’re that young you feel pretty invincible and I’m sure I was very naive about a lot of things. My summers were often spent visiting relatives. One particular aunt and uncle lived on and ran a farm. The unique thing about their farm was that they had a large in-ground pool built up on a hill overlooking their acreage.
The time spent at my aunt and uncle’s, swimming in the pool all day and having a picnic with my family were always my favorite days. This aunt was my mother’s sister and the uncle was her second husband. He had always been nice to me and having been around him for several years already I was comfortable with him. He was always the first one to jump in the pool with all of us kids and he taught me how to use the diving board. He appeared to be a decent guy. Appeared.
There was a large shed that sat about 20 yards from the pool area. It was primarily used for storing lawn equipment and pool cleaning items, but they had renovated a part of it to use as a changing room. As usual, my brothers and sisters were already in their swimming suits and in the pool. As an animal lover, I was always more interested in helping with the farm animals first. With all the animals tended to, I grabbed my bathing suit and headed to the changing room.
I had just walked into the room and had turned around to close the door when I was shoved to the ground from someone behind me. My head struck a wooden bench, not hard enough to seriously hurt me, but enough to daze me. An instant later and before I could regain my senses, my uncle forced a towel over my mouth and pinned me to the ground. I never even had a chance to fight him off. Already dazed from having hit my head and with a towel held over my mouth to prevent me from screaming all of his weight was on top of me. A 6′ tall full grown man against a stunned, average built 13 year old is a terrible mismatch. I tried yelling for help and he just pushed the towel further in to my mouth. I don’t remember him saying anything, not one word. What I’m sure was just a few minutes later, but what seemed like eons to me, he was standing over me and pulling his bathing trunks back up. He got up and walked towards the door. Before opening it, he turned back to me and held a finger to his lips in a shh-ing motion.
I don’t know how long I laid there on the floor of the changing room. I remember removing the towel from my mouth and slowly standing up, struggling to pull my clothes back on. I’m certain now that I was in shock from what had just occured to me. Instead of heading back to the pool I wandered away into the fields. I heard my mother and others call for me several times. It wasn’t until it started to get dark that I made my way to the family van and pretended to be asleep.
After a sleepless night, I heard my father up preparing to leave for work. With the rest of the house still sleeping, I walked to the kitchen to tell my father what had happened to me. I can still hear his words and they still sting like he said them to me just yesterday. His stance was of utter disbelief, that I was exaggerating what had happened. Even when I began crying and tried to show him my bruising he accused me of just seeking attention. His reaction to my story prevented me ever telling it to another person until recently. So there were no police reports, no trips to the hospital and no help for my too suddenly grown up self. If my own father couldn’t trust that what I was telling him was the truth who the hell would ever believe me? My relationship with my father never recovered from that event. I spent the rest of his life being defiant and rebellious towards him. Except for the 5 minutes I cried for him at the end of his funeral service, I’ve not shed a tear for him.
There are still many sleepless nights and horribly vivid dreams, but I’m a much different person today than I was even just a few months ago. I’ve gone from being devoid of any emotion other than anger to being a nervous train wreck of feelings. I’m hoping by finally revealing my story that I can find a middle ground for my emotions.
Before anyone thinks I’m brave for revealing my story, you should know that I blocked family members that followed me on Twitter so that they wouldn’t see this post. To my knowledge, none of them are aware of the assault. I intend on keeping it that way, if possible. I wrote this with the selfish notion of helping myself to move on and let go. If anyone else reads this and is able to draw strength from it or at least know they aren’t alone, I’m grateful for that as well.
Being a victim of rape effects every single decision you make in your life. I purposely put on weight, kept my hair cut short and never wore make-up. It turned me in to a person I never intended to be and absolutely abhor. The person I’ve acted like for the majority of my life is not who I truly am. There are friends who have seen glimpses of my true nature. That friendly, sometimes funny, genuinely caring person is who I know I am. I’ve currently lost 38 lbs. (Another 25 would be great.) I’ve let my hair grow out-It’s nearly shoulder length now. The make-up is kind of tricky so if anybody has a few tips that would be wonderful. I’m going to try to spend the rest of my days being this new person whom I think I was always supposed to be. I really like her and I hope some of you who read this do, too. Peace. I’m out.

That Special Guy In My Life

   Okay, confession time. I actually have a guy in my life who’s quite special to me. I can tell him anything and he listens intently without interrupting me. He greets me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek every night when I get home from work. I share my bed with him & I’ve got to admit, he’s a great spooner even if he is a bit of a pillow hog.
   Did I mention that he’s a cat? His name is Ripley and from the moment I adopted him 10 years ago I knew he would be special. He had some large paw prints to fill. Anyone who’s ever had pets seems to have that one special one they remember with just a little more fondness. I was sure that pet was Jonesy, Ripley’s predecessor. Jonesy was the most affectionate cat I thought anyone could ever have. He truly was my shadow as he wouldn’t let me go anywhere in the house without him. He even used to sit between the shower liner and curtain while I was in there. When feline leukemia forced me to end his suffering, I was devastated. I thought there would never be another cat that amazing. Man, was I ever wrong about that.
  Fast forward to a year later. I had resisted getting another cat because of how special Jonesy was to me. I didn’t want to set myself up for that sort of painful loss again. Driving home one day I passed a sign that said “kittens free to a good home”. I didn’t really want another cat, but I *needed* another cat. A hour later I was headed home with my new best friend.
   Those of you that have a pet cat-you know those quirky things that cats do that you think only your cat does? Ripley does them. All of them. He’s the silliest cat I’ve ever seen. He has this “lick, lick, bite” routine that I used to hate, but now would miss terribly if he didn’t do it. Ripley is very demanding of attention. If he feels like he isn’t getting enough, he takes it out on my action figure collection. I’ll come home to shelves of them laying on the floor. He definitely knows how to push my buttons. And his meow-he still sounds like a little kitten. It’s so damn adorable. Thank God I let the furry  little bastard into my heart. He’s definitely enriched my life.
   I’m going to go pet him for a while now so he doesn’t attack my new “Walking Dead-Michonne” action figure.
Peace. I’m out.

Sweet or Crazy…Let’s Find Out

   Welcome to my first ever blog post. I’ll start by telling you that I’m not a writer. I’ll try to write my essays with a common theme in mind, but because I lack the skill set my stories may wander all over the place. I may not write well, but I do write honestly and speak from the heart. Hopefully, that will make up for the lack of flowery dialogue.
   Let’s start with some general information about me. I’m 46 years old and I’m the youngest of seven children. My twin sister is 8 minutes older than me. (Yeah, sorry, there’s two of me!) I’ve never been married but I have been engaged. I have no children. Well, unless one very demanding cat counts as a child.
   I’m a bit of a neat freak-to the point of even ironing my towels and washcloths. Go ahead and laugh, but I have the tidiest linen closet you will ever see. I’m a control freak as well. I’ve always avoided things that take me out of control. I swear it’s true when I tell you that until 6 weeks ago I did not drink alcohol. Sure, I snuck a sip from my parents bottles when I was young. Who didn’t? I’m talking about the “pour myself an adult beverage and then have two more” kind of drinking. I enjoy it, responsibly.
   The last few months of my life have been about letting go. There are copious amounts of things that I’m desperately in need of letting go of. I’ve been an angry person for very long time. The root of that anger has an origin story, but that will be a topic for another post. I will cop to the fact that my father and I didn’t get along very well. My mother used to say that was because we were too much alike. I, sincerely, hope that isn’t true.
   I tend to obsess over things. Whether it’s my passion for “The Walking Dead” (and “The X-Files” & “Lost” before that) or my concern for my online friends. If I interact with you and I see sadness or pain, you better believe I’ll be contacting you to see if I can help. The empathy I feel for others is my favorite trait and one of the few things that make me feel good about myself. I genuinely give a shit. I don’t think I have a fake bone in my body. I want to help even if it’s just as someone to whom you can vent your frustrations. I’m sure all of this adds to my raging insomnia, but I’m surprised by how well I can function on so little sleep.
   So what does all of this mean? Damned if I know. I’m a work in progress, breaking down walls I spent years building up and trying to open myself up to new opportunities and experiences. A friend just told me in a text that I’m either sweet or crazy. Hence the title of this post. I like to think I’m both, but join me on this journey and we’ll discover the truth together.
   I’ll occasionally be dedicating my posts to certain individuals. This one is for Jess and Lisa. Jess, you were the first person to reach out to me and make me feel like I mattered. I don’t think you knew what you were getting yourself into, but thank you for maybe seeing a strength in me than even I didn’t recognize. Lisa, your DM pep talks and support have given me a renewed faith in people. Thank you for encouraging me to share. I know it’s the right choice and I’ll be a better and more confident person because of it.
             You ladies rock!
Peace, I’m out.