Negative Nancy And Hurricane Harvey Sitting In A Tree

I was supposed to become a diligent little blogger. It was going to be therapy. For a while it was! I lost steam when I learned of the passing of a fellow blogger I instantly adored. She was tough and kind. She was quality.

Also, last year just took me by the ankle and spun me around for 365 days. It began with my purse being stolen. It ended with me fracturing a bone on my foot. In between, I lost precious kitties, my baby, Harvey took the expensive part of my house and soaked it in shit-water for nearly three weeks, I kicked a sewing needle and it went alllllllll the way into my toe, and my family collectively lost their kindness. Seriously, that bucket of dead dicks stepmother of mine? She never did undick herself. I believe she is going for a record. I should be recording.

I lost a couple of friendships but that hardly matters. Losing friendships was why I thought 2016 was a terrible year! I implicitly recall crying to my stepmother (ha) about how much it hurt to lose those weighty old friendships. Perspective is slutty. What shall this year slobber on? No slobbering, 2018. Pretty, witty please.

My dad, the optimist, he always told me that the more friends you have, the more disappointment. Indeed, some old friends have disappointed me, but where was my warning about the baby? How truly nothing else fucking matters when you lose one? How long does this last? Fuck friends, I kindly request my dreams back.

I still dream about my baby nearly every night. Once I passed what was supposed to be my due date, I no longer dreamed of an infant- the nocturnal tease became instant three. A precocious, dark-haired toddler whose face I cannot capture with paint. Or colored pencils. Or pastels. Or the most ambitious concentration that ever walked the land of broken hearts…

I have stopped taking my medicine, but I swear it is how I have thus far survived all this shit. I can hardly explain it but it’s true.

I have increased my intake of leafy greenery. That helps, too.

I am going to write two blogs a month. That is my goal. Therapy doesn’t grow on trees, you know.

Harvey took the couch I laid on with my darling, Castor, when he took his last, sweet breath. I could lay on that couch, close my eyes, put my hand over my heart, and feel again the pure love from my beloved kitten. I could plainly feel his soft fur beneath my palm. I could hear his dainty, quirky chirp meow.

I cannot do that anymore. Sometimes things are the most important things. It’s not nice to shame those lovers of their things. I would probably punch an old lady in her nose if I could have that couch back.

I am not a good person. I am a sad person. A very, very mad person. I want my babies.

I’m Hungry

My whole world, all I both love and hate, and all the thingy things that simply please me are in my refrigerator.

The day is dismal. Nothing appeals to me because everything fucking sucks. Oh, wait, a pudding cup! It was hiding behind that bullshit Tupperware I have been too scared to open for months. Let me just scoot that to the side and yay! My little sweet treat will shove away the ‘blah’ mundane fuck ass day. My kittens are pudding cups. I come home too grim, and the pudding cups come galloping into the room. Instant grin.

Bills, the inevitable pieces of shit! They are the Worchester sauce I keep replacing but rarely use. Because of the rare use, I forget about the boring bottle on the counter and find it the next morning. Having no desire to pick a fight with a spoiled anchovy, I throw the boring bottle away. I have to replace it, though, because when you need worchestersauce … nothing else will do. I never remember to pay my phone bill on time.

Hellman’s mayonnaise is my mother. No matter how irritated she makes me, no matter how serious the diet, there is only one mayonnaise. Kraft light mayo cannot work a fucking lighter, much less hold a candle.

The little plastic piece of prison is cheese. You can put cheese on damn near anything but you shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have a credit card, but I do.

My boyfriend is that bottle of divine wine. When it does me right, wow. I am giggling and brave. Love is the best damn thing. When it does me wrong, and I wake up the next day to throbbing pain too strong to salvage the day, I hate it. I am done. I am never drinking again. I actually like being single, so I don’t need this shit! I promise I swear, I will never drink again, sobriety doesn’t frighten me! Please just stop making me throw-up. Both nauseated and empty, I am helpless. There is no reprieve. Only time will heal.

The giant collection of fast-food sauces and packets is that pair of jeans I have had since highschool. How can anyone know for sure they will never fit into their old favorite jeans again? They cannot! So those jeans are saved, for that ‘just in case.’ I love Mcdonalds hot mustard! So if I ever run out of mustard, which has motherfucking never ever ever happened to me, I will be glad I saved those likely expired tiny tubs.

When I happen to catch my favorite song playing, I am doing the dance you do when you find someone else’s delicious leftovers in a styrofoam container in your fridge. They aren’t my left overs, but I am so happy they stopped by at this perfect time. Yum yum yum.

Pineapple and cold showers. A tart shock and then super satisfying.

Icy water pitcher. Cool bedsheets at the end of a night so long the birds are chirping. Such fresh refresh.

How the fuck did this onion turn to mush?! Getting out of the shower and realizing the bottle of lotion is empty and my last clean towel fell on the floor and a cat peed on it.

I do not understand why I even buy bread. It’s impossible to watch television. Moldy commercials sneak up too quick. I might enjoy one or two sandwiches before the next barrage of perky advertising cancels out that easy lunch plan. I’ll wait for Netflix.

Fuck Netflix.

It’s been three months. I read it’s about a three month average for women to … to what? Recover? Get over it? Stop talking about it? There is no nonsense thing in my fridge to compare to this absence within me. I suppose I could say I am hungry. My empty belly desires what is not there. My heart hurts. My brain hates. Unfairness is not affected by the complaining of it. Crying doesn’t sway a thing in your favor. If it were a flavor, it would taste like the most delicious thing the tip of your tongue once touched momentarily after everyone else had a feast, and then that taste went extinct.

But life is not yet done, it’s got pounds of maggots to hand out. Appreciate your electricity, we are spoiled. We forget, have fits, drain batteries, and barely feel alive without a device. The forgotten rotten swarm with the flies. We should make ourselves sick.

Truly, it would be one constant retch if it weren’t for the kittens.

Come With Me If You Want To Live

I was going to name him John Connor. That was not a first and middle name. John Connor was to be the first name. I would correct anyone that omitted the Connor, even if for the sake of brevity. I would correct anyone that tried to call him JC.

Long ago, while stoned and watching The Terminator, I had said,

“I ever did have a kid, and it was a boy, I would name him John Connor. So many corny jokes to be made, fuck yeah.”

“Come with me if you want to pee.”

“Come with me if you want apple sauce.”

“Come with me if you want to get your allowance.”

“Come with me if you want to borrow my car.”

“Come with me if you want me to not make a scene in front of your little friends.”

Now, did I plan to use Arnold’s voice every time? Was I going to beat that joke into submission? Was I likely going to make him abhor one of my favorite movies? Damn straight.

Why that name? I just told part of the why. And I am telling you right now that I was horrified to learn my womb invited company. I was scared. I was resentful. My life, the life that I loved despite often hating the owner of it, was over. I wanted to punch every sidekick Captain Obvious ever had when they would say,

“You are going to love this kid! You won’t regret having it. When the baby is born, you aren’t going to feel like your life is over.”

No, kidding? You think I will love my kid? This here bipolar hasn’t done broke me so bad that I will be over it in a few months, cut it up, salt it down, and grill me some baby steaks? I am so relieved. Thank you for telling me that!

I am pro-choice to the bone, I do not believe a hell waits for women who make certain choices, and I *chose* to stay pregnant. That is why I know I won’t regret having it, roger that? Just kidding! It’s you, man. Your poignant second sentence makes me confident I won’t regret having this thingy.

But here is the thing, y’all, about me feeling like my life is over – it is. *This* life is over. Of course, I will love the kid! No shit, I won’t resent the kid. I presently like my childless world. I presently resent my body for dropping the ball on my usual no-baby diligence. And I have eight months to mull over these alien changes and be fucking scared, angry, and mind-blown, okay?

Man… The things I could not say, and the things they said without listening.

My pregnancy wasn’t a typical oopsie or a romcom oopsie. I wasn’t on the fence about biological children. I had prudently applied deep thought to my unwavering no-baby stance. My life was not in a good place, and I am laughing out loud as I type that understatement. I was doing it alone. I gave my dearest the same choice I had, and he chose,

“Nope.”

I knew immediately that I was going to have a boy. No one can convince me I was wrong. I knew I was pregnant before I was late. I knew it was going to be a boy. And I knew he already had a name. Right after my confirmation tinkle on a stick, that memory said,

“Heyyy.”

When I told my family about the pregnancy, the ones that mattered said the right things. My family has since become smaller, and if you see my stepmother, tell her I will see her next Tuesday.

When I learned I was pregnant, I had just lost a baby kitty. I had put my kitten to sleep. It destroyed me. I was still grieving his death. I had three big fat other cat kids …

And there was so much other ugly stuff going on. I was …

I am bipolar, for now, enough said.

I was going to name him John Connor because those lame jokes were vital. I had to practice them, you know? I had to focus on those tacky little daydreams because I *had* to get myself in the game. The program and I had to color-coordinate on the phone before the big day.

Manners. I would love to teach a little dude some manners. I adore them and they are becoming extinct. I thought about how cute it would be to watch a tiny boy dine continental style.

He was going to hold open doors for old ladies galore while wearing a bow-tie, that’s right. I giggled at the horrible things he would wear and then cringe at in those later years when photo albums came out. The things his girlfriend or boyfriend would say … and then we would high five.

When he showed his smart mouth and said no to my request for help with dishes,

“Come with me if you want to live.”

The classic line worked in so many ways, or I could alter it. And I planned to.

These unrealistic scenarios got me through the devastation, fear, and anger. I could do it. I could do it alone like a bunch of other women do and have… It would be okay, absolutely it would. Because even if it wasn’t, I had an arsenal of hokey Terminator jokes.

My grandmother made it clear that my pregnancy was very bad news. She preferred I have an abortion. She said my aunt agreed. She told me they pitied my future baby. I hung up the phone, then cried a bit. I looked down and said,

“Come with me and you never have to meet that bitch.”

It made me laugh! See, it worked.

Mom and dad knew I was scared, so they put on their giant happy faces and exaggerated their legit happiness. It was what I needed. My step dad was happy for me, too. It was appreciated. So I tell my stepmother,

“Lip-gunk, I’ve huge news,  I am pregnant. I am keeping it. I am scared to death, this is nuts, but I am going to have a baby.”

Monotone and said as if staring at a ceiling, she told me I should probably have an abortion if I was so scared. She suggested abortion three times within just a few minutes. Take note that the second thing I had said to her was that I was keeping it. And she insulted my mom by telling me it was a shame I didn’t live closer to them because she couldn’t see my mom giving enough of a shit to help.

I played that conversation over and over in my mind for a few days before looking down at the belly,

“Come with me and I’ll train you to bite that bitch on command.”

No, no. It would never get old. Not for me.

I was pregnant and I had never wanted to be, but I was going to have a baby. I didn’t have heaps of support within the family, but I had the ones that mattered. I had two amazing friends that knew how I felt and respected my feelings while being so supportive it makes me cry. Those two were of the very few who knew I already had the name. They knew the silly story behind it, but they understood why it wasn’t silly.

I cannot stress enough that I *had* to think of the fun, the positive. If I didn’t, my future seemed bleak. I wanted to be as calm and happy as possible during my pregnancy. I read how important that is.

But I felt so ill-equipped. I felt such dread. I was so depressed. So, I had to spin spin spin. The people who had told me to terminate inadvertently helped me with this. They created a defensive, protective connection between me and the blastocyst. By the time the embryo was a fetus, I was down.

And then one day I started to bleed. There were cramps. I tried to be cool. Nature would do what nature had to do… I tried to be calm.

But, no … no, no, no.

I had goddamn overcome my initial goddamn fears. I had battled my goddamn family members and my goddamn ex. I was going to have a goddamn baby and he had a goddamn name.

I put my hands flat on my belly,  spread my fingers wide, and I closed my eyes. I said to my belly what I was supposed to say at least a thousand times,

“Come with me if you want to live.”

He didn’t.