Long Month Was Long

J has left from his month long leave. He’s moved on to California.

The kids spent a week with him without me, plus a weekend. It wasn’t what I wanted, and I was advised against it, but it happened so there you go.

I told him about some things that I knew, including the fact that he bought a phone in his name for the girl he always planned on leaving me for, prompting to call me a “Crazy fucking stalker”.

This whole month has been full of hard.

I’ve been down on myself for a lot of things, some of which were not my fault.

I tried so hard to be a good wife, and regardless of what he or anyone else believes, I  know in my heart that I gave it my all, and that was all I could do.

 

I’ve been down on myself for not selling as much as I’d hoped in my shop. Just because it’s not selling doesn’t mean that my art is worthless. I forget that sometimes. I plan on adjusting prices and hoping that helps.

I’ll be okay. I forget that sometimes too.

On Letting It Go

I’ve been holding on to my feelings for a while now. Sometimes because I know J reads this, sometimes because I don’t have the words, sometimes because I’m annoyed that I’m still bothered by the past.

All through the years of verbal abuse, whenever I was upset he would tell me that I was being too sensitive; he would say, ‘Yes, I called you fat last week, but that was in the past why can’t you just let it go already?”

After the incident, he went to anger management and counseling for a few months. We’d talk through instant messaging and emails. He’d ask how I was feeling. Sad, I’d tell him. Alone. Scared. Upset. Angry. Confused.

His ears would prick up at “angry”. It seemed like that was the only part he’d cared about hearing. And then he’d turn all of his anger management techniques he’d learned in therapy on me, eventually telling me that I was just like him.

I knew it was absurd then, and I know it’s absurd now. I did nothing wrong, but from then on in order to keep him from having any ammo, I shut my anger away and locked it tight. Those months living alone in Italy I was sad, devastated, afraid, unsure, terrified for myself and my kids and our future, but I was never angry. I felt bad for him. I felt bad for blowing the whistle on the abuse, I felt bad that he had to live in a dorm and wasn’t allowed back home. All his stuff was still there. It was like he was a ghost. But I kept my anger in check.

He flies back in tomorrow. He’ll be back and he already stated that he wants to stay with me the month he’ll be on leave. I can’t allow that and it upsets him but I just can’t.

Now that he’s almost here, I find myself swallowing the anger, and it is bitter. I have every right to be angry, being angry doesn’t make me like him, it makes me human.

The Plan (or) P90ouch

Tonight I found this picture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from two years ago. I so do not look like this right now. I have gained too much weight since then. So. The Plan. Go back to the several hours of cardio a day, because it was so very very worth it. I felt good, I looked better than I do now, and I felt better in general and about myself. I’ve got a long shitty road ahead of me. However, it was very much worth it. I’m looking forward to this.

whinge

These days I want to pull my old raggedy torn blanket over myself and curl in a ball and sleep until I feel better, which may take weeks, and I don’t care that it may take long.

Leaving the house is hard. Groceries are a pain in the ass to go get because I have to interact with people.

Getting the boy ready for school is hard.

Cleaning the house and doing general maintenance on it and on myself is hard.

These things shouldn’t be hard. And I’m tired of having people tell me to just be positive.

My friend Chris said, “Telling a person with depression to just be positive  is like telling a person with a broken leg to walk it off.” He’s right. For someone so far in the hole telling them to just be positive is like telling someone to move a mountain with their mind.

I’ll be fine. I’m frustrated and scared and overwhelmed and tired and at the same time can’t seem to sit still all the time every single day. I’ll be fine, but in the meantime I need an old torn blanket I can hide under and someone to tell me that it’s okay to feel like shit sometimes.

 

I don’t understand how I can feel so alone and so annoyed with company. How can I feel lonely yet want everyone in the world to just get the fuck out of my face?

crappiest update ever

Hey, folks. This is what I’ve been up to. I dyed my hair pink, yes indeedy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now? Now it’s purple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and very, very damaged from all the bleach, bless its heart. This may be it for me with all the wacky colors, I think after this fades I’m going to either go back to my natural color or dye it with a gentle red, and no more bleaching.

I made a shop on etsy and have bee slowly adding things. It took me forever to do because I’m insecure and if I don’t have anything in there, then I can’t freak out if nothing sells. http://www.etsy.com/shop/kimberlyhughes Take a look, okay? Okay. If you see something in there you think is neat, please link it to your friends. Word of mouth, pay my bills, all that. ;)

New MSPaint Comic: My Night In Pictures

Parenting Fail

It’s 3 a.m. and my 4yo just woke me up my screaming “MOM!” until I woke up and ran into her room to see what was wrong. She called for me because her blanket wasn’t all the way on her person. I put it back on her and she fell right back asleep. In the murky darkness, I slammed my little toe so hard on the open door that I thought I broke it. Really, that whispered, “Son of a BITCH!” was coming out whether I wanted it to or not.

Gnarled

I wonder how other people feel about growing older. I am fine as long as I don’t think about it. As long as I forget that we’re all mortal.

Do they stand in their showers, heads down to brace against the water pressuring down on their necks, lathering their stomachs which are now lumpy? I used to have a flat stomach (thank you, eating disorder) and once I mentioned to my then-boyfriend that I thought I needed to lose a few more pounds.

“You don’t need to lose any weight,” he told me, “putting my hand around your waist is like holding a beer can.”

How odd, and yet how comforting that was. What a strange compliment, one that didn’t seem all that strange to me at all.

Now I stand in the shower, head bowed, water pounding down on the back of my neck.

I run my hands over my soapy body; my stomach, much decidedly less like a beer can and more like bread dough. The price of children, the price of age, the price of laziness, “I’ve got highways for stretchmarks, see where I’ve grown?”

My breasts have written a formal letter to gravity, stating that they are no longer friends, and could they please have their CD they lent gravity back?

My legs are stout and muscled, like always. Like tree trunks. Like walking every day after school for hours and hours with Rebekah. They remember the way they are supposed to be molded, so they stay that way. For now.

My hands, they hurt. They hurt so much. Curling them into almost-fists are painful and I think arthritis, arthritis, arthritis. It runs in my family and I can barely grasp and carry the weight of something in my left hand. I have my grandmother’s hands. I used to love her hands. I still do. I regret that I do not visit, that I live too far away now to make a simple quick trip. That my children do not know the gentle people who raised me.

I think, when I am old, I will regret that I took more showers than baths.

I will regret not running as often as I could.

I will regret not getting on the floor to play with my kids as much as I could have.

I will regret not flying kites more.

I will regret not digging my toes in the mud more.

Most of all, I think I will regret the fact that I regretted so  much.

I will wash my hair, and my arms and my lumpy tummy when I am old. My legs will be like tree trunks. I will try to be more comfortable in my own skin.

Guilt free day off? Is there such a thing?

I started having a horrid migraine last night, and usually when I get a bad migraine I can just sleep it off. Last night was an exception; it was difficult to fall asleep and harder still to stay that way.  I woke up with it still in full force and drove Trent to his doctor’s appointment 15 miles away with daggers behind my eyeballs.

On the way back home I stopped off at a fast food joint and picked up some food since I felt like I had been beaten to a pulp from the inside out. I’m still recovering from surgery (more on that later); that, and the combined migraine made me unwilling to make lunch.

The rest of the day consisted of me on the couch in the living room, with the drapes closed and the lights off. I napped on and off while the kids colored and played with legos and part of the time watching kids shows.

I got absolutely nothing done today, and I kept feeling guilty for it. Each time, I reminded myself that even though I clean every single day I have a four year old and a six year old that dirty the place up almost as soon as I can clean it, and that the mess would still be there tomorrow. So today I got nothing done and worked hard about not feeling bad about not working hard.

Is there such a thing as taking a day off without guilt? A day where you let the kids veg out and the dishes stay dirty in the sink and clothes don’t get washed or put away and it’s perfectly fine?

On surgery: July 16th, I went to bed around 8:30 or 9:00. Everything was perfectly fine until I woke up around 2a.m. with a band of pain wrapped around my chest. I thought maybe it was just indigestion or something so I took some pepto and went back to bed and waited for it to pass so I could go back to sleep. I changed positions about eight million times. I got up. I sat on the couch, I laid on the couch, I sat in a chair, I went back to bed and tossed and turned some more. As time went by, the pain intensified and by 5:30 a.m. I decided that they could laugh me out of the emergency room with indigestion for all I cared, I just wanted the pain to go away. Off to the ER I went. I told them where it hurt and they told me not to set down and rushed me back to have a look. They ran an EKG,  started an IV and gave me morphine, took some blood work, and left. I tried breathing techniques to ease the pain. I tried laying on my side, finally I sat up hunched over with my legs crossed, which seemed to help a bit. When the doctor came back he saw me and said he didn’t know if I was having heart problems or if it was a bad case of indigestion, but the way I was sitting made him think it was something else. He had me lean forward and smacked me on the kidneys, and that didn’t have any effect. He then had me lay down and said, “Okay, I am going to have you breathe out and then I will push on your right side. When I push, I want you to breathe in slowly.” As soon as I started to breathe in he pushed down and I choked out a loud, “OH GOD!” I think I started to cry for a little bit because I’m obviously a giant pussy, and he apologized profusely. He left to get an ultrasound machine and a nurse came in and gave me two doses of something stronger than morphine. I don’t know what it was called, I didn’t know they even made something stronger than morphine, but as soon as it started working, I’m pretty sure I loved everybody. The doc came back and poked around with the ultrasound machine and said that my gallbladder was enlarged, and they were going to send me off to get a better look. Later a lady came with a wheelchair and scooted me off to a dim room for more ultrasound pictures.

A nurse came in and said that a surgeon would come talk to me in a little while. I called my mom who lives roughly three hours away and told her what was going on and she said she was on her way. When the surgeon came, she said the ultrasound pictures weren’t very clear but she could count at least 18 gallstones. She said that they don’t normally just remove the stones since they would probably come back, so they were going to remove my gallbladder. By the time I was ready for surgery, mom had the kids and kept an eye on me. They were waiting in my room for me when I was wheeled in. The kids looked a little nervous, but I told them everything was okay and they hung out for a bit and then mom took them back to my place. The next day at noon they sent me home. I almost wanted to stay another night. “No! You don’t understand! Someone is watching my children, the air conditioning here is awesome, I have peace and quiet and people keep bringing me things! It’s like vacation!” They sent me home with paperwork on How To Care For Yourself After An Appendectomy (on every piece of paperwork) which is a little off, considering I had my gallbladder removed. I keep wanting to type gallbalder.  I’m sure the procedures are just very similar but it’s not something that inspires confidence.

Hey doc, if you’re just going to remove random organs while you’re in there, next time take some stomach fat while you’re at it, okay? It’ll make your job easier while you’re fishing around in there looking for scrap, and I’ll look better in a bathing suit. We all win, here.

Back in 2009, when I decided to start being myself and laughing at myself and all things beautiful, I decided that I’d start posting some neat links I’d found around the internet because my bookmark list fills up fast and then I never look at them again. I’ve decided to actually do that now! Wow!

Up first, we have:   http://design-milk.com/bacterioptica-chandelier-by-madlab/  “the chandelier is made of Petri dishes, metal rods and 15,000 feet of fiber optics. Inside the Petri dishes each family member placed some  bacteria.”

People with talent make me jealous. Jerks. http://www.ninjavspenguin.com/blog/portfolio/ Ninja vs Penguin, A blog about art, design, illustration, film, filmmaking, and screenwriting

Some of these are quite lovely. Some heartfelt. Definitely worth a look. http://dearphotograph.com/Take a picture of a picture from the past in the present.

In Which I Complain More

I picked up the keys to the new place today, and went by to clean.

They gave me two identical keys, saying that they only went to the back door, and they don’t have keys to the front deadbolts. I got no key to the basement door, which opens to ground level, they told me that they never had a key to it, and that it doesn’t open very well. None of this was mentioned when I was looking at the place, or when I signed the lease.

I asked when the washer and dryer would be put in, since that’s one of the first things I asked about when I called to inquire about the place. They told me today  there wasn’t any provided, just the hookups for them. I distinctly remember asking if they were included, since it’s such a big deal to me and going to a laundromat is a huge pain in the ass. Perhaps she just misunderstood me when I asked her about them, and thought I meant a place for them to go. I called a place in town that sells refurbs, and I can get them for $125 a piece. Not happy about having to pay more money.

The house needs to be repainted. It looks like there are those cheap wall panels put up over what was there, and they’ve painted over it a bajillion times. The surface isn’t smooth and they never scraped any paint off, just added layers. Some of the other places I’ve rented from will at least pay for the paint or knock some money off of the rent for being the one to paint it for them. I have to buy the paint and supplies and paint it myself, and if I pick a color they don’t like, I have to repaint before I move.

Most of the windows open, but several have no screens and one has the storm window that is barely attached to the frame. Which doesn’t help when trying to get rid of the smell….

The previous tenants were on vacation and had a bunch of deer meat in the freezer when the breaker blew. They came back to the stinkiest house ever. When I was shown the place, they told me that they had cleaned several times, checked under the fridge in case anything had dripped down into a pan, scrubbed and cleaned some more and basically were just waiting for whatever smell that hung around to fade. They had placed charcoal and vinegar in the fridge in bowls, and bowls of vinegar throughout the house. When I signed the lease, I asked the actual owner about it instead of his secretary. He said they he had seen way worse and if the smell didn’t go away by the time I was supposed to move in, they would have professionals come in and take care of it.

When I went over there to clean some more, the smell was still very strong. I placed bowls of ground coffee around the kitchen and in the fridge to help absorb the smell. I moved the stove, which is right next to the fridge, which is what you would have to do if you were checking and/or cleaning under the fridge.  Under it, I found a sticky floor and dust. And cat toys. The thing hasn’t been moved for months. I moved the fridge and there was the same amount of dust under it. When I opened the fridge door I noticed that it stuck a bit and glanced at the white sealing strip…at the bottom there’s some sticky red, smelly goo. Deer goo. The rubber strip at the bottom is drenched in deer goo. To clean it, I will have to peel the rubber strip off and soak it in bleach water, and scrub it after that to get it all off. God knows where else the stuff is hiding. I’m going to have to take the damn fridge apart and try to figure out where this shit is hiding.

I’m wondering what the fuck I got myself into. I’m really resentful towards the landlord. I’m a little resentful toward the previous occupants. While I’ve been packing the house I’m in now, I’ve scrubbed the walls. I moved the washer and dryer, the fridge, and the stove and swept under them and mopped. I’ve cleaned the oven. I’m going to steam clean the carpets before I go. Where the hell is integrity anymore? I realize the landlord himself probably doesn’t go clean or even look at his own rentals much, but goddamn it, I would. If you own rental property, your houses are your product. Take a little pride in what you do.