Archive for the 'Inside my Skull' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Oct 2017

Just spilling. It’s been that long so buckle the fuck in.

That’s the thing about this whole smartphone era…when you realize you want to sit down and actually fucking WRITE…you have to go through ten thousand steps in the process and somewhere in there, you’re all “PATRICK! You’d better fucking bring me cheesecake before you come home” and look at that…two years later and two fucks in the first paragraph. You’ve missed me, right? Admit it.

So. I recently spent almost $200 on concert tickets to see 311 and neither I NOR Patrick watched the whole concert because our kid went crazy. Again.

Hey. We have a kid. In November of this year, she will have been ours free and clear for almost 2 years. It’s amazing how that happens, right? Fuck I’ve missed this. I think I need this again. I don’t know how else to get it out. So we adopted Abi. I’m not even going to sugar coat it because chances are, the four or five of you left that actually still have this left in whatever you replaced google reader with (FUCK…did I renew this domain? I don’t even remember) know everything because the Facebook and the Instagram already know everything about her but WHATEVER this is in me and bubbling out and I cannot stop.

We adopted Abi. She is amazing. She is the child I was supposed to have and I adore her. I am her mama. But I am a terrible mama. I am so mad at her right now. I’m sitting here in my cute dress with my perfect wedges in the foyer or maybe still on the porch and my perfect makeup in ruins and honestly I may have ripped the choker off in the backseat of the Uber but it was a 311 concert so I wore a choker but I heard they were totally a thing now anyway and FUCK. Sorry. Patrick just called me and he was like…yes, I’ll bring you cheesecake because sometimes the only answer is cheesecake.

Breathe.

We adopted Abi. She is my blues eyed, strawberry blonde dream. She is my girl. She is my heart. She is so very broken. (pause for whiskey)

(I drink Whiskey now, BTW)

Abi is my daughter. We got to change her middle name after the adoption and so now her middle name is the name I always wanted to give my little girl.. She is my heart. She is my world. And about an hour ago, I would have traded her for…fucking anything, I don’t know.

My daughter may be bipolar. She may have schizophrenia. Her genetics would point to either of those. In stead of just the sarcasm and assholery and knack for engineering that would be the situation were it just my genetics and Patrick’s involved. (Fuck…it’s hard to find my voice again but it’s coming back to me slowly…) She is the textbook definition of ODD but I’m not sure that’s really even a thing? Anxiety. PTSD. ADHD. On paper she looks like alphabet soup. But she is my girl. She is my heart. And I am so mad at her right now that I just want to scream but instead it brought me here.

(For reference…the last thing that brought me here was Anastacia Motherfucking Campbell. Which…by the way… WTF STACEY??? Boo…you whore. I was cleaning out my bathroom drawer the other day and I ran across the amazon package of pipettes and small bottles I’d bought because we were going to share perfume collections because we both had weird obsessions and FUCK OFF THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU FUCKING ANASTACIA CAMPBELL, I WILL GET TO YOU IN DUE COURSE)

My girl. You guys. She is the one that I didn’t know was mine. She is the one that was born the same day I was having a wretched miscarriage. When we’d gotten to the point that I was like…It’s even too much for my blog. She was destined to me mine from the moment she took her first breathe, I imagine.) I will not bore you with the details of our fight for her. I made that mistake once when Patrick and I were in Mexico and I accidentally turned into that old person drunk over-sharer and I still have nightmares about the look that that cute newlywed couple gave me two nights later in the restaurant. But…whatever…I’m not scarred. Nope. Not me.

Patrick just called me. I answered the phone and was like “I’m writing again. Bring me cheesecake.” He said… FINALLY.” Was there ever in the universe a person more mine and for me than him? Absofuckinglutely not.

This is so long but we have so much to catch up on.

My girl…she is…damaged. She’s been seeing a therapist and an NP who put her on Prozac and…I don’t know…I think that made it worse? Lord knows I’m not going to discount the usefulness of pharmaceuticals these days. I spend 5 minutes every Tuesday night (FUCK…that’s tonight…) filling up my weekly pill sorter (PINK! So cute!) with the various drugs that help me make it through the week (Buspar, Wellbutrin, Xanax, etc.)

I’ve just made the executive decision that the only thing I’m going to do before I post this is spell and grammar check it. I NEED this outlet. Blogs are dead. Obviously. I mean, even Dooce hardly ever posts anymore. (Amalah is the only reliable one and, quite honestly, I probably need to pick her brain about IEPs) But that said, I just…I need to spill.

She flipped out again. I don’t know how else to explain it. My girl. My heart. If things are just so, you cannot tell her “no.” But I REFUCKINGFUSE to have the child that will not be told no. So here we are. With the “I hate mom and dad” (she spelled everything right I counted it as a win because STANDARDS LOWERED) scrawled on the wall (in washable marker because I value that now) and the wooden desk chair (that I’ve had since I was her age and my parents only recently gave her along with the desk that I remember having where I stored the Michael Jackson “BAD” cassette in one of the drawers) thrown over the balcony of her loft (OMG, house…loft, too big, kitchen reno, WTF is wrong with me, cannot even go into that, maybe another time but probably not) and splintered into pieces (FUCK…I HAVE TO PEE…HOLD PLEASE)

I just saw myself in the mirror. It was fucking terrifying. DID YOU KNOW THAT I’M FORTY??? I look every bit of it. Just so you know. Also I should have taken my mascara off before I started crying but oops…

FUCK. Do I scroll back and read? I don’t know. I’m thinking no. Word says I’m already over a thousand words. My girl is so angry. At the slightest thing that even hints at a “no” she will kick and scream and bite and hit and kick and throw shit and FUCK UP YOUR WORLD and you never know when it is coming. (I need more whiskey…I don’t, actually, it is 10 pm and I DO have to work tomorrow) We have a new after school nanny (we have an after-school nanny now. We have a housekeeper too. We are people like that. I apologize. Shit happens.) (BUT…I promise you that REGARDLESS of being one of THOSE people, I am still wholly and fully disgusted by the state of…I cannot even say it…that…THING squatting in the White House and we will get into that in due course because I’ve really missed this outlet) So we are at dinner and I get a call from the sweet sitter, the lovely and perfect girl who has been at our beck and call and who, I ASSURE you, I will NEVER hear from again, telling me that Abi has lost her fucking shit. So there we are at the table. Me. Patrick. Work colleague/vendor who looks alarmingly like Jason Bateman. His wife (who is having fucking BREAST CANCER SURGERY in the morning) and two of her friends (who were awesome…I should give strangers more credit). And the first time she called I’m all “Just answer it please, Patrick” and he comes back to the table and he’s shaking his head and I KNOW…I just KNOW. It’s not over and this night is not going to end how I hoped it would with us rock paper scissors lizard spocking it for who will drive home and then taking a shitload of Tylenol and just white knuckling it until bedtime on Wednesday night. But I order another drink and I’m like…it’s okay, it’s FINE. Then she calls again like 20 minutes (and 2 drinks…whisky, yo) later and I just pick up my phone and leave the table because I know that that chair ain’t felling my ass again tonight.

And here we are.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Every day I try and tell myself that I’m making things better…not worse. But I don’t believe me.

Patrick is home. (With cheesecake because he’s Patrick) (and because I literally texted him “don’t even think about showing up without cheesecake”) and he asked what happened and all I could tell him was that I sobbed in the foyer for a while and I could tell that the Uber driver was still at the top of the driveway because apparently the $10 tip (smallest bill I had and I cried the whole way home so I knew she needs SOMETHING) was enough to keep her interest and she probably saw my underwear because of the way I slid down the glass door sobbing and then eventually I got Abi to put on some clothes and I cried some more and she asked for a bedtime story and Grimm ain’t got SHIT on me (I’ll get into that later…I tried to tell Patrick about my twisted fucking bedtime story that I told after I yelled “OH YOU WANT A STORY, I’LL GIVE YOU A FUCKING STORY) and I’m STILL crying and it made him go straight to the liquor cabinet and pour a whiskey) and then I came down here and left my crazy fucking expensive leftovers (seriously…it was a vendor dinner but if that bill was under $500, I’ll be AMAZED) on the kitchen counter and grabbed the laptop out of the TV cabinet because at that time I knew there was no other outlet than you, dear blog, and hastily poured a glass of whiskey and just…spilled. (I’ve lost track of the parentheses) I spilled to you. I didn’t spill whiskey because I’M A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL

But you guys. Is so many ways my life is so much more than I ever imagined. But in other ways…I’m so ill-equipped. I’m lost. I’m drowning. I can’t fix it. I cannot help my girl. I love her. But I cannot fix it.

This.
Fucking.
Sucks.

Published by PaintingChef on 12 Sep 2014

Unbreakable.

Oh internet. Is this what we’ve come to? Me checking in on my birthday? Being a year older? A year scarier? A year wiser? Bwhahaha. Yes. So wise. So sure that by 37 I’d have it all figured out.

This past year man. What the hell? A roller coaster of epic proportions. And I shit you not… every time we think we know what is going on, the rug is pulled out from under us. It happened yet again last week. A’s mom is back in an inpatient mental health facility. And their time is ticking down, you know? This is a HUGE step backwards for them and just more uncertainty for A. And for us but we are secondary in this.

I am exhausted from this process. It hurts my heart every day. But I love this child fiercely. She is the child that I was meant to have, for however long I am lucky enough to have her. I know I’ve said that before… news flash… I’ll probably say it again (although at this rate, it will be on her 10th birthday). As soon as we come to accept the situation, the outcome, it all changes. My head spins on a daily basis, I have no idea what is going to happen tomorrow or next week or next month. I want to protect her from it all but what am I protecting her from? Her family? Her future? Her genetics?

I never imagined that this process would raise more questions than it does answers. I don’t know what I expected, in hindsight. But I’ve learned more about myself in the past year than I ever thought I would. And I’m not going to lie… not all of it was pretty. I am far, far more selfish than I ever knew. I am petty. I am jealous. I am impatient and I am spoiled fucking rotten. But I’m also kinder than I knew. My mama bear instincts run deep and strong. I’m determined and loyal and fiercely protective of my pack. I’m more flexible. I’m sillier. And sometimes, I’m even the cool mom.

Fine. That happened ONCE. And she has no idea why she was wearing a Run DMC shirt so it probably didn’t even count.

I have no idea what the next year will bring. With A. Me. Patrick. Work. Home. No clue. But the experiences of the past year have made me want to do something for the coming year. So I’ve decided to give myself a theme for my 37th year. An idea to guide my life, my actions and my intentions. I am an Unbreakable Fighter. I will be a fighter for A. I will be a fighter for my marriage, for my well-being, for my health, for my future. I will not allow uncertainty or disappointment to break me.

I am a Fighter.

I am Unbreakable.

Fighter

Published by PaintingChef on 31 Mar 2014

On popping my cherry and why mother isn’t currently speaking to me…

Today I am a mother. I don’t know for how long. But today I am a mother to an amazing little girl. She is smart and strong. She is funny and stubborn and she is oh so wise beyond her years. That part breaks my heart every day but every now and then it will produce a moment that kick me in the ass and the gut at the same time.

I was helping her get dressed for the bed the other night and she reached down and stroked my hip and said “I love these bumps mama. You’re so pretty and you give such good hugs.”

Oof. Gut. Kick. Heart. Bursting.

She loves those bumps. The ones that I spend way too much time trying to camouflage with just the right clothing and shapewear. They are pretty and they help me give good hugs.

That’s when I realized that, for now, it’s up to me. I am her female role model right now and what am I teaching her if I can’t show her that I love myself and think I’m pretty too? Just the way I am. I can’t wait to love myself, to embrace my body. This is me, today. Curves, bumps and all.

If DCS has their way, I may be the only positive female role model she ever gets. Yes, she is only four years old but SURELY I can instill something in her that will last. If I’m going to do that though, I have to first love the woman that I am right now. Inside AND out. It feels like a new beginning that I hadn’t expected. I want so desperately for her to blossom with confidence in herself. Her intelligence. Her kindness and the gentleness that she is capable of when she’s not trying to destroy the world… because she has that side too… She needs to know that she is worthy of a good life, of happiness and respect and fulfillment and love. I learned those things from the women in my life. My mother, sister, grandmother, great grandmother, aunts, cousins and friends. But somewhere along the way I think I forgot about it.

Until now. And I don’t want to ever forget it again nor do I ever want to forget who reminded me and how much she needs me. That’s where this comes in…

Tattoo

Published by PaintingChef on 13 Nov 2013

On the Vagina Embargo

So… I have a daughter. I have a daughter until at least February and then, who knows. She is three. But at some point, she will be thirteen. And sixteen. And eighteen and twenty-three and on and on and on. At all those ages, barring some significant event, she will be the owner of a vagina and it has become clear to me that someone early on has put some crazy in her head.

Here is what is weighing heavily on me right now. At no point in time did it ever occur to me that she was already forming opinions and impressions about her own body. But the other night during her bath, she referred to her vagina as a “cushy” and said it was ugly and yucky. I was speechless. Heartbroken. FURIOUS! Who told her that?? How do I address that? Where do I start? It never occurred to me to call it anything other than a vagina but as I jogged my memory, I recalled my mother using the word “tutu” as some point very early on. It was quickly replaced by the proper name once I was able to form the word.

My three year old is unable to pronounce vagina. I know. I tried. But calling it a “cushy” brings to mind the word “coochie” which I find incredibly crass and so I nipped that shit in the bud (bad pun) immediately. We agreed on tutu for the time being however I also introduced her to the word vagina, told her that was the proper name and that it was not a bad word at all and when she felt comfortable saying it, she should.

Next step? It is ugly. And yucky. I corrected that too. It is not ugly. Or dirty or anything to be ashamed of. It is part of who you are and it is a special and beautiful part of your body, my dear. Love it, care for it and keep it happy and healthy. (But the reason it hurts sometimes is because it is tired. Let her sleep honey. Hands out of your pants please.)**

But this sent me down a thought spiral. Why do we even insist on cute little names? Or worse, vulgar, disgusting ones? Why are we teaching our daughters that their vagina is something ugly or shameful? It’s no wonder that so many girls grow up with body image problems. We are drilling into their heads from an early age that they carry with them something we can’t even name. That one of the parts of their body that makes them a girl (and eventually, a woman) is something so shameful that we can’t even talk about it.

Why have we made vaginas so terrifying? They are beautiful and neat in their perfect little packages. And when we take care of them, they take care of us right back. They bring life into the world. They give us pleasure. Those are both GOOD things! And yes. She’s three. Obviously we aren’t talking about “where do babies come from” and bath time isn’t a lecture on the beauty of the female orgasm. But it is a chance to plant the seed that her body isn’t something to be ashamed of.

So I propose we bring back the vagina! Let’s get rid of nicknames, slang and degrading terms. Let’s teach our daughters to love their bodies, to be proud of them and to care for and respect them. Yes. I’ve been a mother for all of 2 ½ months. But this one? I never saw this one coming. It never occurred to me. And I think I’m probably guilty as well. I know for a fact that I’ve used the terms “lady business” and “lady garden” more times than I can possibly count and I’m sure I thought I was being cute or clever.

Thoughts? What say you, dear internet? Am I crazy or is perhaps the Vagina Embargo the root of more problems/issues than we imagined?

** And yes. I know this for sure. She has been to the doctor. She does not have a UTI or anything that requires medical attention. She has good old run of the mill irritation. Chafing, if you will. From… exploration. Which I am all in favor of at some point. Just maybe… not at the dinner table?

Published by PaintingChef on 07 Aug 2012

The absence of funny

I feel like I’m drowning in my own life. I have no funny. No snark. All I have is this weird ache in the pit of my stomach. I can’t sleep. I try so hard to laugh or to make someone else laugh or just to SMILE once in a damn while but I just… I’m broken somehow. Nothing has happened. No life event. No dead babies. No live babies or any decisions about whether or not to try and make a live baby. I just want to hibernate. It’s beautiful outside. It’s summer… this is my time. This is when I’m so happy. I have my garden and my puppies and my Sunday afternoons with Patrick out on the lake. I have lazy Saturday morning showers and trips to the library. I have Sunday brunch outside with friends. I have afternoons on the deck with a book. I have GOOD THINGS. So why is it suddenly not enough? What is this dull roar in my head all the time? It’s like white noise that makes my ears hurt. It’s the voices in my head telling me that I’m not doing it right and it isn’t good enough and it just isn’t enough. I don’t want to get out of bed but when I fall into bed at night, I can’t sleep.

I work all the time, my head is full of to-do lists and things that I don’t even have time to add to my lists so I know they aren’t going to get done. It’s a bunch of gobbledy-gook that isn’t even interesting and I probably brought it on myself but it overwhelms me. I can’t ask for help because it’s MY job.

This sucks. I’m so sorry. I want to be clever and tell you funny stories but I don’t even see them lately. Funny shit probably happens all the time around me. Patrick dropped his car keys in the lake last weekend. I’m sure it was hysterical but for some reason I cried about it.

Fuck. I have to go back to the doctor, don’t I?

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