Imaginary Love

I may not be the best kind of friend, or girlfriend, or fiance, or wife.  I may not be the "Mother of the Year" or the "Employee of the Month" but what I lack in those areas, I make up for in knowing exactly who I am.

I don't need a series of relationships to define me.  I don't need to prove to the world how in love I am or how my bff is better than yours.  I don't need to post endeless pictures of my perfect life to try and prove to people that I am happy.  I don't need to post status updates every five minutes that no one cares about.

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The mirror would show you the mess you are, if you would walk by slowly enough to see your reflection. 

The mirror would tell you stories of your disasterous life, if you would just look at it directly instead of seeing only what you want to see.

The mirror would show you that you are not perfect and that is okay.

The mirror would tell you that your scars are what defines you.

I'd be afraid of the mirror if it told me the truth too.  

The truth I didn't want to hear.

The truth I didn't want to see.

The truth that you are made up of pretend things.

The truth that you have no substance.

The truth that you are a bad friend.

The truth that you are selfish.

The truth that you have created the world you live in on imaginary love.

The mirror would show you, if you just stopped to look, that you are a mess, just like everyone else. 

The mirror would remind you that it is okay to be a mess. What are you trying to prove anyway?

How much better you are than everyone else?

How much more you have to offer than everyone else?

You are no better than anyone else.

The 'you' in the mirror would remind you of that, but you are too afraid to look.

I would be afraid of the ugliness too.

Old Yeller

Last night, in 45 degree weather, I sat behind homeplate watching my daughter's softball team bring home a win - their second of the season.  Softball brings her this great amount of joy.  Not only does she love to see her friends a few nights a week, but she also loves learning about this game.  In years past it hasn't been like this.  She was a decent hitter, but not great in the fundamentals department.  She liked playing but it wasn't her favorite thing to do.  Lately her love of the game has been radiating from her fingertips.

For me it is quite the opposite.  This year marks my 26 years in the game; I have been playing since I was 5.  I was practically born on a diamond.  While my three older brothers played baseball, I was dragged from field to field, with a layer of dirt covering every inch of my skin, and a small bag containing Matchbox cars and a shovel. 
The ball fields have been my second home as long as I can remember.  '
And I love being there. I love eating horrible, highly-caloric foods.  I love sitting on the bleachers for so long that I can't stand up straight afterward.  I love listening to the coaches acting like this is the ALCU championship game when in fact it is a recreational league and you win a free trophy that was Made in China for .01 cent.  I love when it is 45 degrees outside, I am swathed in a blanket, yet somehow I get completely sunburned.  The sights, the attractions, the foul balls, the popcorn, the bright lights... I love all of it.  With the exception of the "playing" part.

Over the last few years, softball has become a chore instead of a love.  When it is rainy out, I become super excited that maybe my games will get cancelled.  When it is a holiday and we are off that weekend, I do mental cartwheels because I don't have to go to ball.  This is exactly how I know that I am done playing on leagues.  When it stops becoming fun there is a problem.  I suppose the same could go for realtionships, but that sounds like a topic I could blog about all on it's own.  I have just recognized the probelm early on and decided not to beat a dead horse.

I am going to retire from softball.

Not like I will get some kind of pension from it or cash out my 401K, but I will hang up my cleats and stick to watching ball and coaching my daughter - who is becoming an good little ball player.  I am proud of my daughter.  She has that spark that I seemed to have lost.

And I am okay with having lost it.  I still love the game. I love being knowledgable, rooting for the Tigers, and playing catch in the yard or hitting grounders to her in an attempt to improve her fundamentals. Even drawing maps of diamonds on computer paper and explaining to her "turning two" or why an out was forced or not.  Baseball is in my blood and I am certain it will be until I die.  My love for the game hasn't gone anywhere.

My love for playing the game, however, has been dragged out back and slaughtered.

Five more weeks...

Every Tuesday night, part of my soul dies.

This semester has proven itself to be the worst of my educational career.  My collegiate pilgrimage, might I add, is proving to be the longest relationship I have ever had.

It's okay, because I truly love school.  Nothing makes me happier than a fresh college-ruled binder and a brand new black ball-point pen.  New folders, new sticky notes, new text books, new friends in new places, and new teachers to make me even more excited than I was the semester before.

I have thoroughly enjoyed every single second of my time in college...

Until now.

From the very first day of class on Tuesdays this semester, I knew that I was in trouble beyond trouble. 

I have a mouth. That is something that does not take a brain surgeon to grasp.  I like to openly express myself when I feel I am being mistreated or when I feel like you are being a dick.  Sometimes I just lack the filter portion of my brain and will openly say what I am thinking whether I am completely ostracized for it or not.
Even my daughter says "You know when you say the first thing that comes to your mind?  Normal people don't do that."
Thanks, Bird.

So this professor.  5'2", 172 years old, with a PhD from Yale.  He looks like he may have crawled out from underneath a pile of hippies at Woodstock.  The fact that he doesn't smell like Patchouli is utterly surprising.  On the first day of class he asked if anyone minded if he went barefoot. After slipping off his strappy sandals, he wandered around the classroom during his lecture with his toenails that look nothing shy of those greenish/yellow potato chips you sometimes find in the bag. Yes...Those.  And he looks like this:

This past week he told me "He should plan my demise." Also that I go around slandering Mormons and I just "can't do that."  I also know nothing about love if I don't know the true basis of where passion lies.  The guy is a complete nutter, yet I paid him $308 dollars to tell me I am stupid and above all, incompetent.  

I am willing to bet that I could pay a bunch of people $200 to do the same insulting. Maybe even $100.  That's a pretty good price for boosting one's self-esteem.

I've been counting down every week.

Five more weeks, five more weeks...

 

*Update: I got an A+, over the allotted percent in this class.  Phew.

Hell's Time Clock

On September 4, 2013 I sold my soul to the devil for a paycheck every two weeks.

At first I thought "It's just not what you are used to. Grin and bear it. You don't have to make these people members of your family."
Slowly but surely I accepted their behavior and dug my heels in like all the people had before me. I accepted mediocre pay and decided that it was an easy job all I had to do was lower my standards.
Which I did. The problem was there was no one to complain to.  Issues arose, but I just had to swallow them down because no one gave a care.
Besides, when management is the problem, who do you complain to?

Little by little I felt myself fleeting.  Small fragments of my soul being diminished along with my dignity and pride. I would have sleepless nights for the fear of being verbally ripped to shreds the next day.  What kind of decision had I made?  When all these other decisions I had made in the last few years were for me and my daughter - to make us happy... I sold out.

I would receive verbal beatings all week long, but lunch on Friday - like it made all the abuse just magically disappear.  Like when your parent backhands you across the mouth but pulls you in for a hug afterward. They did it out of love, right?  I don't treat people like that.  I don't pretend to like you if I don't. I don't abuse people. And I certainly don't associate myself with people who do.  Yet every single day I went to a job where I was saying "It is okay to abuse me." It is not okay.

If there was only one thing I have taken away from this life it is that I will not put up with someone hurting me - not mentally, emotionally, or physically.  A screaming product of why I am alone. An even louder scream of why I will remain alone.

I am okay with this as long as I am okay with myself. And I am. Now that I am no longer punching Hell's time clock. I would rather be poor than have no dignity.

My Own Clique

My biggest fear for the last 12 years has been losing my daughter.  In one way or many ways, I always knew that when the preteen/teen years came, our relationship would begin to dissolve.
I don't mean go away completely, but dissipate or fade even. One day she wont wave bye at the bus stop or kiss me when I drop her off at her friends house. One day she will scream "I hate you." while she stomps with fury off to her bedroom and slams the door.

Some of my friends have already had these moments with their kids. Some of my friends will soon enough. My relationship with my daughter isn't perfect, as I have balanced the role of mom and dad alone for her entire life, but I do a pretty decent job. I also know when to put my phone down and pay attention to the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

Tonight, I entered the cafeteria to my old middle school - my daughters current middle school - for a science event. As more and more families piled in, moms grouped off into cliques and oddly enough so did their daughters.  I watched these small kids experimenting with these awesome science projects while their parents couldn't stop texting for five seconds.  All the while I hung out next to my daughter. She walked away once because I was being too slow. She saw her friends and she said hi. Even wrapped her arm around one for a half-hug, but she didn't leave my side. We walked from station to station like two friends would - maybe we were in our own clique? She wasn't embarrassed that I was there with my chin on her shoulder watching science experiments or rolling up her sleeve as she stuck her hand in a pile of goo.  She didn't seem to mind when I tucked the strand of hair behind her ear and oinked like a pig in that same ear to tease her.

One day I may not be so fortunate.
She will tell me to go away.
She will tell me I embarrass her.
She will even tell me she hates me - I am pretty sure all kids do.
Right now, she is still my little bird.
She lets me hold her hand and she still kisses me on the lips.
She snuggles me before bed every night and she makes sure to tell me she loves me just before I turn off the light.

Some people's babies are grown up and have moved away, some have grown only so much and passed away, and some don't have babies of their own.
I have been endlessly blessed to have every ounce of love I could ever need.
Someone once said "I married my soul mate."
Well I made mine.
Just saying...

One Single Day

The "New Years" holiday has never meant much to me.  I always see people food shopping galore, hosting elaborate parties, having themed said parties, dressing up and going out, but all the while it is nothing more to me than another night for me.  A night I usually spend in jeans and/or sweats with my daughter after watching movies and/or playing a board game or two.  Last night we did crossword puzzles together.

I get the "resolve," but it is always so trite and unrealistic.  You really think the best thing for your future is to buy a gym membership you will most likely use for 2 months and never again?  You really think that the key to success is to "be kind to others" only to be cut off in traffic and scream like a sailor and forget about it the next time you have a misfortune?  I don't set these kinds of expectations for myself. I don't presume to let one day dictate that I need to have resolve. That I need to be better for the year because I was so crappy the year before.

I try for these "resolutions" every day. Every day when I wake up I make my day's goals and decisions.  When someone says something snotty, I resolve to bite my tongue. When someone forgets to flush, I cringe and flush for them.  When I get bossed around, I stand up for myself as I always should have.  When someone cuts me off in traffic, I remind myself that I have no idea who they are or what is happening in their life.  Maybe they don't have an emergency to get to, but that's not for me to determine behind the wheel of my car. You're in a rush?  Whatever. You are one space ahead of me now - revel in it. 

Life is really hard.  Like, really hard.  And no one can fully understand hardship and heartbreak and all the other two-words-in-one experiences without having gone through them, but I firmly believe setting unrealistic goals for yourself one time a year is worthless. Why one day a year? Why not every single day?  We celebrate all kinds of holidays throughout the year; If every day is too much pick each of those calendar holidays and set a reminder.  One day a year is not enough.

So celebrate the coming of a new year. A clean slate.  I have given up on thinking "This is my year" because it is, also, unrealistic.

This is my day. I am going to make the best of ONE SINGLE DAY rather than 364 days way too far ahead of me to actually control anything.

Today is my day. My day to be all the things I want to. Or at least start to be.

Kitty Boy

Making a decision on someone else's behalf is one of the most difficult things I have encountered in my short 31 years.  The process is gut-wrenching, stressful, and down-right depressing to say the least.

Over the course of the last year and a half, my kitty, Dylan, has been sick. No one knows what is wrong with him, but, of course, everyone speculates and imagines they have the answer.  He has been to 3 different vets and each one walks away clueless and Dylan walks away worse for wear.

A year and a half of having unwilling bulemia.  He eats... he throws up.  He drinks... he throws up. All the while I am sure his heart is weakened, his esophagus has to be tore up, his teeth are probably ruined permanently, he has 60% hair loss, he is down 9 lbs (yes, he was 20 lbs; He is a massive cat), and he has random open sores from licking himself almost compulsively.

All of those reasons make me say: Put him down.
Life is not meant to be lived while having to suffer constantly.

And pets don't tell us when they hurt.
He can't say "Mommy, all I want to do is eat like a normal boy." or "I just want to stop having to hurt every day."

At first I was distraught having to go through endless rolls of paper towel and cleaning up piles of bile and hair.  Now it is second nature.  He gives the meow and I am there in a flash.  Thankfully I have almost all hard floors in my house and he manages to puke in pretty convenient places.  But still my heart is heavy for my kitty boy who has been my little buddy from the first day.

His appointment to be put down was for this past Saturday.  He has had an amazing week, too. One puke on Wednesday and nothing since. Almost as if he knew it was the end of his life was coming this weekend. Saturday came and went. I cancelled his appointment because a large part of me couldn't put down my little kitty boy who was snuggled up on my lap for the better part of 3 hours the night before when I couldn't sleep over the thought of ending his short life. When I called the shelter, the little old lady who answered wept with me as I told her I didn't know what to do.  I told her I didn't know how to make the decision for him and that I didn't know if it was even the right decision at the end of the day.  Especially when he was having a great week. A week of normalcy.

Dylan (left) and Lucy - Nov 2013

Maybe selfishly I just need more time to come to terms with ending the life of my little friend.  My companion. My buddy.  The guy who when I got him had no whiskers because he burned them all off on a candle.  The guy who would sit on my lap no matter where I was (yes, even tried to on the toilet). The kitty boy who has been a part of my family longer than any actual human guy ever has and maybe ever will.

I know, at the end of the day, that Dylan's life will be cut short and that I will have to make the long drive to the shelter to put him down, but I am not ready right now.  So many things happen in life and they always seem to happen at the same time - and I am not ready to lose him yet.  And as tears now well up in my eyes I will go snuggle up with him on the couch now, because I can.
Because he is still here... for now.