trickydoodle

I was in the bathroom, doing, um, bathroom-type stuff, the completely dainty and delicate kinds of things, mind, and Robbie got out of the house.

And by "got out of the house," I of course mean he opened the door and went outside.

I forgot to use the special Anti-Robbie-Getting-Out Latch, fashioned by my brilliant and lovely husband.

So, Robbie was free to just go. Like people do. Outside. Outside is a nice change from inside, what with the weather and southwesterly winds, and neighbors and trees and things.

May not seem so bad to you. So, a five year-old goes out for a stroll. They do that. I hear they do, anyway. Maybe they don't. Do they?

However, most have some level of knowledge about streets and traffic and staying away from streets and traffic. Rob does not.

In fact, the nice, sweet, adorable yard-working, tree-cutter-downer from *across* the street who escorted Robbie back home to me told how he saw Robbie, out in the street, in the traffic, running around.

I have never felt so shitty or so scared. I have no words to describe. Can't describe the panic. The anxiety. The pissed-offedness I feel towards me. I am ashamed.Sad.

And a little mortified.

You see, not only does Robbie not understand the streets and the traffic, he doesn't get that everyone wears pants when they are outside.

Yes, he had no pants. No diaper, no shorts, no underwear, no anything.

Just a shirt and shoes and socks. In the street, with the cars.

I am a terrible mother.

Not that I plot Dark Deeds or partake in Dark Activities. I do not. I don't even like saying mean things about people. Or thinking them.Too much feeling crappy about it later-on for my liking.

But I do think Darkly. Like, gee, I wish I didn't exist today. Not in a suicide way, just in a never having existed way. It can all be too damned hard. Especially when it isn't hard, it's all lovely in fact, and then something stupid and avoidable happens. "Happens."

Nothing really happens, you know. We get what we put out there. I just thought I have been putting out the good stuff. At least for the most part. Largely. I am smack in the middle of post-manifestational figuring out whyedness.

Why?

I know this isn't what I want. I want my life to look vastly different than it does. Simpler, more fun, more interesting-in-a-good-way. Relaxing. Pretty. With clear skin and a perfect long-sleeved tee shirt for Fall layering.

I don't think we are supposed to struggle. It doesn't make us noble or superior. Living well and all that. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. I am all for the merry. The more the.

Thing is, I am so easily pleased. A gift of a two-liter bottle of Diet dew, matching socks, wearing my pajama-shoes on a cold night. Robbie. Always Robbie.

But, alas. The Dark. I have a severe case of it tonight. And this week. I am trying to just stop it and go with my flow. I think I'm in one of those swirly-water-things. What are those called? I used to be so smart. Or, well, equally as smart but much quicker and with better memory retrieval agents in my head.

Dammit. Where's my Clarence?

Sometimes.

Sometimes, man, everything can just feel so good and so clear. Even though, like now, for me, I wouldn't particularly think that would be possible.

Happened through music. I opened iTunes, thinking I might watch the latest Grey's Anatomy for the low, low price of $1.99, even though it's on my DVR downstairs. I'd rather be upstairs, here, in this spot, and, yeah, $1.99.

Anyway, iTunes, in it's infinite wisdom, had some songs selected that I might enjoy. And, well, fuck. They were right. And, every time I clicked the *see more* button, I saw more. Yes. Kid you not. MORE! iTunes = wicked smart.

I am listening to Social Distortion, OMD, Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, The Pixies, Cold Play, Jack Johnson, The Sundays, and Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. Oh, and They Might Be Giants. That Birdhouse song. Reminds me of my brother's Venezuelan wedding. All of my brother's friends were out dancing to that song immediately following beautiful, incredible, amazing fancy Venezuelan dancing (crap, what's that called?). We had heart, but that was it. It just had to be so funny to the watchers-on. On-watchers? Yeah. On-watchers. Lookers? On-lookers.

I certainly am not, at this moment, talented enough to describe the juicy goodness of music and its ability to soothe and move, nor do I have the attention span to even try. Let's just agree it soothes and moves. It does. And I am soothed and moved.

But? The kicker? The Cat Stevens song "On the Road to Find Out." Brilliant song. Honestly. Makes me cry with the juicy musical goodness. It's just true. Totally. Just plain old true. The answer lies within. Why not take a look now?

Why not?

(I'll post a free mp3 of it as soon as Chris tells me how to *really* ftp to this blog.)

Times like, oh, say, now, I miss the times like, oh, say, a month ago, when I was so fully occupied with my mundanities. I mean, sure, I was even then appreciating the beauties of the things and the people, loving watching Robbie be Robbie, taking my photogs, all that. But, I felt somehow that something was missing.

I guess being a person whose life has been so full of chaos, I was missing the highs and lows of that. Of the chaos. because every now and then I let some chaos back into my mundane.

And, crap. I HATE chaos. I would so rather not have it. Maybe that's my lesson this month. 86 the chaos. Hold the crazy. With a side of normalcy. And I'd like my salad first.

I don't have to struggle. I don't have to and I don't want to. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to feel good. It's even okay to feel crappy and weird. But it is not okay to gauge my life by the level of chaos I can handle. Handling chaos well, while definitely a helpful character trait, isn't anything to brag about, really. great. I am good at allowing fucked up situations into my life. Woo! And oftentimes I can clean them up and move on! Yay!

I'd like to simply read a damned book. Or go running. Or mow my lawn. You know? Calming things, for me, by me.

So, that's what I am going to do.

I am going to listen to myself when I say things like:

"I don't want any new people in my life with crazy, bad situations I have to hear about all of the time."

"I want to have alone time. I need it."

"This is all too much. I can't do it."

"I am happy with what I have right now."

I am going to listen. To me. I am pretty wise in the ways of me.

More of this month's lesson is that I am going to listen to me.

And dull really isn't dull. It's lovely.

I had a very taboo day.

Was fitting with the weather. Cold, windy, rainy. Nothing you want to talk about.

Though, you can talk about the weather. No one will find your morally reprehensible or evil. I mean, unless you are plotting to take over the world with a fancy Weather Machine with Helena Cassadine. Then, perhaps. But, widely, talking about the weather is safe, something comforting that brings factions of humanity together against the forces of nature. The worst possible offensive in talking about the weather is that it's annoying. Big deal.

I dislike taboo. I dislike that women, everywhere, go through this and cannot openly discuss it. The emotional, physical, unforeseen crappery. The pain. My, God, the pain. Emotional, physical, unforeseen pain. Guilt. Of course the guilt. Because Someone, Somewhere cannot ever even hope to have that situation bless them and theirs, and how dare anyone take that for granted. Kill that dream. Kill.

I am forever broken. Messy. Hurt. Damaged. My pain is unforeseen, unknowable, unspeakable.

But I would like to speak. And not about the rain and General Hospital plotlines from the 70s. About the taboo.

Time. It's weird. Sometimes it flies. Sometimes it crawls. It heals all wounds. Even wounds that it has healed before.

I have been trapped in time. Waiting, nervously. Hoping. Praying. Begging. Searching. Searching both my soul and my vagina for signs of the cycle I have been following since I was 10. Searching ever since the night I had to extract the condom from deep inside myself. I knew then. I knew. I still went through the motions of believing everything would be regular.

But, honestly, I never bought it. I knew. I knew my deepest, darkest, scariest, most dreaded fear was a reality. The reality that could kill me. Push me right over the fucking edge of myself. I would be lost. I would not make it. How could I?

How could I possibly make it through the horror, the loathing, the shame, the hopelessness, the loathing? How?!

Because I know. I know I should never engage in something that has consequences that are beyond my scope of coping. Unwanted pregnancy is beyond my scope of coping.

Except it's not.

It's not. Not even when the dread and fear and bile rotted in my throat and in the pit of my stomach for days and days and weeks. Not when every day hurt and made me feel old and tired and used-up and worthless.

part one of at least two.

The whole of the building is cold. I hear through tenth-hand information that they can't specifically air-condition the O.R.s, so they must drop the temperature in all of the rooms.

Upstairs, many of us are huddled under old, piled blankets. One haggard-looking, hardened young woman complains that she, too, is freezing, but she won't use a blanket because there is just no telling who used it before now.

I want to tell her it doesn't matter. Whomever it was, it was us. That I find the stray hairs on the worn worsted wool comforting, unifying.

We are all one. We should be, anyway. Sisters in this. Sisters in life. Non-judgmental, non-prejudiced, open, caring, nurturing. Even though we won't nurture the tissues inside of us, we can nurture each other.

Sometimes, we are all we have.

And I would drape us around me any day. Every day.

I want to stop and thank you for taking the time to read this and leave me comments and send me email. Your support and kind words have helped and touched me immeasurably. Immeasurably. Is that even a word? Eh.

Honestly, from the depths of my being, thank you.

Heh. Now, I have a fairly high tolerance for the pain. Especially in a situation such as this one, where I feel I deserve a bit of pain and that I have no business complaining. No right to complain.

But, man, it hurt SO FREAKING MUCH. So much. I was completely shocked by how much it hurt. Seriously, some serious, freaking, horrifying, deep, blinding pain. It was all I could do to breathe. I conferred with my two abortion friends afterward, and both Megan and Blond Girl said the same. Megan told me she actually was screaming. Loudly. In agony.

Because it does feel and sound exactly like what it is--vacuuming tissues that are implanted into the uterus. Implanted. And, yeah, I keep saying tissues. Tissue. Maybe I should say zygote. Potential human life.

I know there are people who think, good. It should hurt. It should hurt that much. And, you know, as I said up there, I, too, thoroughly believed it ought to hurt. Potential human life. And who am I to have even had sex, what with the consequences. And condoms are only considered 97% effective. I deserve whatever I get.

And so, it hurt. And I took it. And I am still taking it. And it still is much worse pain than menstrual cramping. I've also been bleeding quite a lot and running a slight fever. Still. And the hormones. The hormones hit me like waves, and they knock me right on my ass. Crying jags that feel they will never end. And, really, they haven't. Though, that's more emotional pain, and that's another post entirely.

I will say that while I am crying I am comforted by the physical pain. Again, I feel I deserve it. Okay. Not entirely. Most of me knows that the guilt and fear and the judging are responsible for this line of thinking. Not only in me but in everyone else who shares these beliefs. Maybe some of you do. I don't know. Maybe some of you will examine these beliefs as I am doing. I don't know.

I don't even know if I am examining them.

I do know it was excessive pain. But as it is fading, so is my memory of it.

I won't be as lucky with the emotional pain. That won't fade in one week.

Seriously. Like I need to look like crap, too? Man. Harsh. I also have dull, lifeless hair and weird bloating. Man hands, puffy stomach, giant boobs. Wouldn't think this much would happen in six weeks, would you? And it's been another six days since, uh, the procedure. The tissue-removal. The termination.

The hormones also make me weepy. Hits at odd times. Or maybe not. Maybe not odd at all. Like yesterday, Robbie and I were playing outside before school, jumping in the huge pile of leaves Chris set up for him. An aside, that's a no-no in our neighborhood. You have to blow each leaf to the curb as soon as it falls, and then spray them down with the hose so they stay put. And you have to put large tree branches on top of the whole shebang so no one will play in the piles or drive through them. Spoilsports.

So, anyway, we're jumping and rolling in the leaves, having a Big Time, laughing, being, and it hits me. I start weeping. Just weeping. Weeping sounds sadder than crying or bawling, right? Weeping. It sounds helpless. And I felt helpless. Who are we to laugh and be when I have done this thing? This procedure. Termination. Abortion.

Yet, I don't consciously think, gee, I could have had a baby. Somehow these emotions and instincts are tucked way inside, and only the flow of hormones flushes them out. And they take over everything. My entire brain. My body. My giant breasts throb, as if they were full of milk. My stomach feels the nausea. I get a little dizzy. Clammy. Cold.

But then it passes. Leaving only a pounding in my head and acne. it's difficult enough for me to make eye contact with people lately, and with the added acne bonus, I want to even less. I am just a Big Freak. I feel like a freak, and I look like a freak. FREAK. I am just waiting for the townspeople to poke me with big sticks. Or their rakes. Yeah, their rakes. They'll poke me into the gutter and hose me down and put big sticks on me. And there I will remain until the enormous Leaf-Collecting Truck swoops by and sucks me up.

Oh.

Post-Abortion Syndrome (PAS).

And the Wikipedia® page, thus making it true.

Acne. Post-Abortion Acne Syndrome.

A few years ago, my then-therapist told me I am defiantly self-sufficient. I chuckled. that sounded exactly right. And that continued to be right until recently. Until the abortion.

I was all set to be defiantly self-sufficient. To get it all taken care of without telling anyone else at all. I would take care of it. Done.

Except I finally felt how destrcutive the defiant self-sufficiency is to me, and how little credit I give those I love when I keep it all inside me.

The kicker this time was that Robbie would be involved, and there was honestly no way I would involve him in my mess. Just no way. That simple. And that got me thinking about me. Was there a better way to handle the mess? Did I deserve to take care of me, too? Did the mess *have* to be messy? Could the mess feel better? Could I feel better? Did I have the guts? Would those I love love me back? Could I possibly not go through this emotionally alone?

And, obviously, I chose what was best for Robbie, and, surprisingly, for myself as well.

I told my mom. I told Chris. Chris stayed home from work to be with Robbie and to take him to school. My mom came with me.

I have never really trusted enough. Not in my family, not in myself. But this time I did. And the mess wasn't so messy.

I haven't left this house since Friday. I haven't been to my own house since before Friday. Not sure if it was Wednesday or Thursday. Hired someone to mow my lawn, as I just can't bear the thought of being that exposed to the general, neighborhood public. And by exposed I simply mean visible. I want to be invisible.

This really isn't as hard on me and I feel like it is.

You know how, if you have the Depression, and someone suggests just "getting over it?" "Just do it. just go somewhere, do something. You'll feel better." And you know how, if you have the Depression, that makes you want to go for that person's jugular? because they suck and just don't get it? This honestly is a case of just needing to do it.

Sure, it's hard. It's always hard when one of these hits me. But much of it is self-imposed this time. As much as I don't want to, I am feeling the deserve to suffer bit. And of course I am. It's my main fall-back to keeping myself unhappy.

I also have this desire to have Robbie with me every night, even though I am well-Robbied-out and could use an overnight break. His happy selfishness does my heart good, though, and I would be lost without his presence. Except I wouldn't be. I'd be fine. I would also be fine if I washed my hair and wore pants that didn't have an elastic waistband. But my grunginess is also comforting and also helping me keep the world at bay.

So much of my life is in my head. I am a terrific combination of complexity and not so much. For the most part, what you see in me is what you get. Wow. That is so incredible true and profound.

What you see in someone *is* what you get.

I guess the trick is to hold that vision.

Maybe that would work for me, with me. maybe I can stop going through the motions, here, and just cut it out and go somewhere and do something. You know, just get over it. Because it is over. And it would be okay for me to feel the relief. Relief feels a lot like hope. I like hope.

The other night, I was outside, smoking, and I could feel how pretty the light was, from the setting sun. I grabbed my camera and tried to photograph the light. And I felt the light. And I was the light. I noticed the more I focused on what the light looked like, the more alive ordinary objects and insects and trees became. Magically.

Maybe I should have turned the camera on myself then. The light was hitting me, too. I felt it. I was part of it. I wonder what that looked like.

The light can turn regular gnats into glowing beams of wonder. What can it do for me?

It's been a heck of a month.

My grandmother broke her pelvis in a collison with Robbie. I got unwantedly pregnant. My father's best friend-- whom he had known since either age five or age nine-ish, depending on which story you believe--mine or my mom's, with mine being based on nothing and hers on being my father's wife, though I can't remember if she said nine or ten or thirteen-- killed himself by putting a bullet through his skull with his feet. He was born without arms. He committed the suicide because he feared being disbarred from the ABA and he was facing charges of embezzlement and fraud and the like. Then I had that pesky abortion. And now my mom is off to help my brother and his wife with the baby they are going to having any minute now, leaving me in charge of both Robbie and my grandmother. Which is just so awesome, seeing how I can barely get through the days as they are now.

I know it will all be fine. My gut tells me so, as does my past experience with me and Hard Times. I am almost glad now I had such a shitty decade of being in my twenties. I can deal with just about anything.

I will be happy when the chaos dies down again.

I dislike chaos. And this entry.

It's weird seeing functional families. Oh, sure, some of them only *look* functional. I know. But, still.

Lately I have been feeling deeply flawed. Like no normal human will ever want me now. Like this last bit of baggage has flipped me right over the top of what is actually acceptable in the grand scope of human mishappenings. Last straw. it's final. I am too flawed.

Before it was easy to imagine I have simply been everywhere and seen everything. I have drank every drink allotted for me in this lifetime, I have slept with pretty much everyone, I've been around the block. Pressed my luck. Gotten lucky more often than not. Survived the times i was not so lucky. Whatever. Character. Strength. I made it. I cleaned myself up, became shiny and new. I made it.

And then this. it's too much.

It's really, really too much. For anyone. For everyone.

I'll never be a part of a regular family. I'll always be alone. I know it.

Obviously, with this attitude, I will be. I know that, too. Damn, I just know everything.

Something about the families tonight hurt me. Hurts me. I have those built-up tears right behind my eyes. Under my skin. In my throat, in my ears. I can taste them.

Tonight, at R's school, they held a little pumpkin decorating thingy, with different stations and sensory tables with slimy pumpkin seeds and stuff. We took a small pumpkin as requested and went.

We were about to leave for home, but I had an over-powering need to have R's teacher see that R was there. We went back into the thick of the crowd, winded around the hallway to get to the largest of the rooms via the back door. his teacher was right inside.

She was cute with Robbie. She's just cute. A little boy called Austin ran up, excitedly, with another boy. He kind of shook the other boy's shoulder and said, "Look! Rob's here! it's Rob! He's here!"

The very second Robbie saw Austin, he seriously like snapped into a different kid. He and Austin hugged, then R immediately started chasing Austin around until he caught him. then Austin chased R. They did this many, many times, and there was more hugging.

R has never chased anyone. I have tried hundreds of times to explain and show and teach R about chasing. Never made it work for us. And the hugging! My God, the hugging!

I just stood there and cried. And then I sought out Austin's mom to blather at her about how amazing her son is. (I had been fed bits here and there, mostly via the Communication Notebook, about how much Austin and Rob like each other, and that once they had hugged. I had no idea the degree of everything they have as friends. Yes, as friends.) She was just the sweetest woman. Said Austin is just good with everyone.

Robbie played with another boy. Robbie has a friend.

I wasn't sure either of those things would happen. Ever.

I don't know why this has been so hard. I usually snap back faster. I'm thinking if I knew why, I might get out of it sooner. But I'm just so very in it. In it so far it's starting to feel comfortable. I don't want misery to fit me. I outgrew it years ago. Several times. And again last year.
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I have never understood the "misery loves company" bit. When I am miserable, I don't want any fucking company. I'm so like, hey, get out of my yard! Go away. Steer clear. The thought of someone miserable wanting to be with other miserable people or to make other people miserable and then collect them makes me kind of sick. It's downright mean.
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Some of you may have read an email I received then posted here earlier. I deleted it because it, too, made me kind of sick. I say enough mean stuff to myself. I don't need to be reminded of mean stuff someone else thinks of me. In fact, I need to cut out the mean entirely. It was one thing to let that person in in the first place. Dwelling on why and how I let it all happen is another. And that doesn't make a right.
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I have a Secret Crush on a man who works at R's school. He is the most best-looking human I have ever seen in real life. Of course he is married. And tall. And so totally someone I would never have a chance with, anyway. It's things like this that I think that are so destructive to me. He's just a man. One I haven't even spoken to, ever. But I look at him and think, wow, there's the guy. It's him. You'll never have him. You're too deeply flawed and not pretty enough.
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I never used to think things like that. Never. This is the first time. I don't like it. I don't know where it is coming from, or why. I don't know how to not care how or why. I don't know anything.
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Except that I have to get out of here. I don't like it. Not at all. I feel too far gone. I don't know what to do.

Man. I am so over me. This has to stop. I am certainly not attracting anything good in this current state woe. Enough, already. ENOUGH.

You know, it's amazing how just the smallest, most wee, tiny change can help. I started really dealing with my PAAS (Post-Abortion Ance Syndrome), and that alone has worked some magic. Not only is my skin clearing up, but so is my mood. I like that I found a way to nurture some part of me. And nice that it worked. I am as cute as ever. Except, you know, not. Anyway.

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--------------------------

Oh, where was I? Ah. Yes. Self-nurturing. I'm all for it. Do it.

I'd like to be some help to Robbie right now, but I have zero idea what's wrong. I suspect he is hungry, but I have offered him every food imaginable. He's just running around, screaming, throwing himself on the floor, like that. I am clueless. The constant togetherness we share isn't helping me help him. I'm thinking he could probably deal with some of the crises himself, at some point. Besides, I don't know what to do.

Sigh. Robbie's probably infinitely tired of me, too.

It's hard to get out of a rut, isn't it?

But my skin is lovely.

We are completely lacking structure and anything to do. Ever. We are seriously boring.

A lot.

Like, I picked him up at school and he said, laboringly but clearly, "Go to Judy's Howwwse."

Me: "Robbie, want to go to Kroger first?"

R: "No."

Me: "Want to go to 1391?"

R: "Not go home now. Judy Howwwse."

Chris popped over for a tiny bit. "Hi, Daddy!"

Seriously. All day long, he said things. It is totally freaking me out! He is answering questions verbally or with a nod or shake of his head. It's so sudden. It's so strange. Good-strange. I mean, it sure takes so much guesswork out of my day. And maybe I won't have to be so hypervigilant, either. I won't have to notice at what time and how much he eats. I can ask him if he's hungry!

Just think of that. Think.

Stupid headache.

I am not a fretter. Never have been. Except for right now. I am totally fretting about Things I Can Do Nothing About. Thus, the headache.

Poor Robbie has had a High Fever all weekend. Kept him home today because Thursday is Diagnosis Day, Take Three. Perhaps that will happen, perhaps not. He has quite the knack for getting sick right before the appointments. Last time he had the second ear infection of his entire life. Pretty suspicious, if you ask me. He's on to us. Luckily, this time, none of us are scared or dreading it or anything. Walk in the park.

Heh. Funny comparing something with Robbie to a walk in the park. A walk in the park with Robbie isn't even easy. Well, it's easy if you just let him do what he does. If you just follow him. Which has been the secret of my success with Robbie. Follow him and point out cool stuff along the way. It's just the most terrific pacing of life, too. No hurry. Nothing is important except the enjoyment of the things. Lovely. Honestly.

I'm not sure if you all heard about the Naked Attorney Scandal Bit. An attorney in our town streaked around the Government Services Building. That's where my mom works. She knows him. He's a good friend. Very nice guy. Funny, smart, you name it. But, he does have the propensity for running around naked. As does Robbie. So, I thought maybe Robbie could "dress" as the naked attorney for Halloween! It's perfect, really.

But seriously, I am taking any ideas. Yes, I should know by now, but I don't. Last year he was the Reluctant Sheriff. And it was the first time we were able to get him to go Trick-or-Treating. Was very cool. This year, I want him to be something or someone he recognizes. I am thinking ballerina. He loves ballerinas. But, please, if you have any ideas, let me know.

Did I have a point to this post? I don't think so.

Okay, then, carry on.

Fuck.