Crazy ass bitches…

Why is it so difficult for some to understand emotional pain, emotional scars? Perhaps a point of reference is necessary.

For folks who don’t want to deal with “crazy ass bitches” please understand, we don’t want to BE crazy ass bitches. We’re broken. And yes, some of us have gone through therapy. For years, in fact. But there is no official manual for dealing with broken people, only a guide. And though the people who work in the field do the best they can, sometimes you can only put a bandage and say “I hope this helps.”

I am logical enough to say that my pregnancy hormones are making things far bigger than they should be, a pebble becomes a boulder, a single drop becomes a tidal wave. Yet, these issues, small though they are when I’m reasonable, are still issues.

My personal nightmare, my personal “horror” if you will, is being excluded.

I’ve been picked on when I was a kid, not full on “bullied” per se, but enough that when I see others being bullied, I feel their pain and can say “I’ve been there.” Ironically, my own crazy mother taught me not to care about that and to stand my ground. So, call me whatever names you will, and though it hurts, I can analyze and grow from it.

I don’t know what it feels like to be completely abandoned by those who are supposed to love you. I would assume its what I feel when I’m excluded times 100. Or a 1,000.

I was suffocated by my mother, trapped. To me, seeing others being invited and doing things that I want to do but being excluded (whether by accident or on purpose) is my personal hell.

Today, I blew up on a friend of mine via IM because she asked if my husband and eldest daughter would like to go with some friends to a haunted hay ride. Being used to being ignored and excluded (even if it really hurt) I only focused on my youngest.

To be fair, I must mention that this person loves my girls and would never intentionally hurt either one. But when I read the invitation included only my husband and eldest, my heart started to pound, my hands started to shake.

I calmly told her that he would probably ask the youngest if she’d like to go, too. “The exclusion thing, you know.” I don’t remember the exact words but her reply was something along the lines of “life isn’t fair and they should be individuals, not always together.” And that’s when things went down hill. Again, to be honest, her only thought was that perhaps it would be too scary for a 10 year old. Which is perfectly reasonable since the youngest doesn’t like scary things.

The point was the lack of invitation. Years of “you can’t do this because… you’re a girl, because you’re too young, you’re not enough this, enough that… Not smart enough, not pretty enough, not cool enough…” flooded over me. Years and years of being excluded from parties, events, for example. Not only in childhood but as an adult. Repeatedly having the door closed on my face. Not only metaphorically but literally, as well.

How does one explain this to someone who is constantly looked for? To the point that she gets annoyed by it? How can someone explain the emotional pain that comes from being shunned???


Judgmental, maybe?

So it’s been a little bit since I’ve been here. I’m 24 weeks now and looking forward to delivery. Baby is growing healthy and it’s quite a normal, uneventful pregnancy. Nothing less than what everyone expected.

What I hadn’t expected was the constant emotional turmoil. Constant crying, constant aching. I’m fully aware that it’s my hormones but I wonder if these thoughts/emotions aren’t the “truth” that I push aside with logic. Similar to my thoughts on people who are drunk. Being drunk turns off the filter, so words spoke are truth, actions taken are actions wanted, without the filter to make it stop. It’s hard core truth.

There is someone in my life whom I love very much but we don’t always see the same side. I am a firm believer that you shouldn’t do anything behind someone’s back that you wouldn’t do in front. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint. There are plenty of times when I say that I’d love to beat someone with a baseball bat. And I certainly wouldn’t say that to someone’s face, but I would find a way to soften my words and get my point across with truth.

So to hear that “what he/she doesn’t know, won’t hurt him/her” makes me wonder what goes on behind my back. I have my suspicions on how many lies I’ve heard, how many misdirections. What kind of ethics (or possibly lack of…?) does this person have? Is this someone I want in my life? In my family’s life?

But then I wonder “who am I to judge?” Are we not all marred with imperfections? If the overall package is good, then perhaps I should enjoy the good and ignore the bad…? Maybe?

The choice may not be mine to make, considering how my family has embraced this person. But the separation may be quick in coming, considering how less frequent visits have become. Perhaps it’ll go from a few times a week, to once a week, to every other week until no more. The separation would be easier, right? Begs the question: is slow withdrawal better than cold turkey?

What frightens me is whether this separation will take place before the delivery or after. After, I’ll be able to use logic to bury my emotions. Before… Would be far more painful. Each emotion is on the surface, difficult to control. After all, despite flaws, I still love…


It has been about 17 years since my father passed away. When I got the phone call, it was a bit of a shock. It was a sudden heart attack. The first and only.

When it happened, he and my mother had been on an extended vacation. They had been there for close to a year. It might be difficult to understand, but I had been familiar with the distance so it wasn’t very difficult for me after he was gone. The physical distance was just permanent.

Even so, the idea of the man I called Father being trapped in a box was daunting for me. My father was full of life. He would yell at soccer games, laugh at movies, enjoy his wine at dinner. I couldn’t imagine him in a little box. I didn’t want to.

It was such a relief when I finally saw him in a coffin. That man may look like my father, but my father wasn’t there. The passionate man I knew was gone. This “thing” could go into the ground. I was happy knowing that my father, his essence, his life, wouldn’t be trapped in a box.

Today, I am faced with another loss. People who aren’t animal lovers will not understand what this is about, but for those who are, you will share my pain.

My purebred Himalayan of 18 years has decided he’s had enough and wants to rest. Really, who can blame him? As a purebred, he was expected to rest after 14, maybe 15 years. He is a tenacious fellow and quite stubborn.

About a month ago, I found blood right under his mouth, so I took him to the vet who said that he was experiencing kidney failure. So I have cried more for my cat in this past month than I did when my father passed.

Shadow Cat has lived with me since he was a kitten. He has scratched me, stolen my pillow, woken me up for a pet, puked on my floor so I could step in it, has insisted on walking all over me as I try to sleep, jumped on my lap as I watched tv, has rubbed his little head into my hands insisting on attention, has given me companionship when I was lonely, but most of all, has loved me unconditionally. I love him far more than I ever expected to.

And as I see him wither away (he has stopped eating and drinking) a sense of loss and sadness washes over me. I want his pain to stop but can’t bring myself to kill him. For two weeks, I have watched his deterioration continue. Now, he can’t even lift his head. He doesn’t have enough strength for anything. Barely to breathe.

Today, I have decided to end his suffering. I haven’t made the call yet but I have decided that I need to. I will play God and end his life. In my head, I tell myself that I’m doing it to end his pain but I wonder if I’m not doing it to end my own instead.

I hate seeing him like this. I told myself I could just keep him company until he passed but he’s not passing quickly enough for me.

Have you ever seen a cat who can’t purr? Can’t meow? It’s really one of the saddest thing on the planet. He opens his mouth, even while his eyes are closed, and nothing comes out.

His body is stiff. If I didn’t see his fur going up and down with each breath, I would have said he had already passed. And his breath, ugh, it smells like death.

So, today, I will be a cruel bitch and have my cat assassinated. I will watch as they give him something which will make his heart stop. Make him take his last breath.

And the one creature who would have given me comfort will cease to exist.