I'm happily married with a soon to be 10 year old.
I'm still dealing with a psycho ex husband
I still love to sing and frequent local karaoke competitions
I've been dedicated into the Georgian Tradition of Wicca this past year, about to receive my first degree.
I read tarot cards almost as much as I read books, which is to say, a lot.
I've missed idol, and it seems to be the reason I've kept my journal. I actually went through a period of almost 6 months where I read/posted nothing at all. I missed all of your crazy faces.
I am so ready for this ride.
Bring it on!
I thiiink I'm back.
Whats new with you folks?
I used to make soaps, they were pretty and good smelling, and I loved doing it. I'd like to do it again, unfortunately, all my materials were used up and/or destroyed. I need a leg up to get started again. I created an indiegogo campaign to help:
I would love your help! If you cant contribute, no worries, but please boost the signal if you can!
Love you all
“I’m in a hurry to get things done.”
I look down at the two pink lines on the stick in front of me. There is no doubt that I am pregnant. I look at my fiancé and nod.
We keep the pregnancy to ourselves for a while. Then tell our parents. As two unwed college students, our parents are not pleased. There is no yelling, just urging to move our wedding up a year to this summer.
When he’s not around, my family asks me if I’m sure that I want to marry my fiancé. There is no shame in not marrying the child’s father. I insist on keeping the wedding in place.
We have six weeks to plan everything.
“I rush and rush until life’s no fun.”
The wedding is in 2 weeks. I am horribly ill with morning sickness. Nothing will stay down. And when I do manage to eat something, I feel as though something is stabbing me just below my breast bone. I think its only heart burn until I see the blood in the middle of the night.
I wake up my mom. And we race to the hospital for an emergency surgery. My gall bladder needs to be removed, and I’ll be bed ridden until almost a day or two before the wedding.
I am frantic to get things done. There is not enough time.
“All you really got to do is live and die.”
It’s Thanksgiving, the baby is coming in two months. My blood pressure is spiking up higher and higher and I am ill again. I’m put on bed rest and told to come to the hospital if I start getting a headache.
I make it through Thanksgiving dinner before the headache hits. My new husband of just a few months takes me to the hospital and leaves me to go drinking with his friends once I am admitted.
I am put on an IV drop of Magnesium to prevent me from having a stroke.
I spend two days in the hospital alone, waiting to be released.
“But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.”
It’s December 1st and I am in the hospital again, laboring alone. I cannot reach my new husband to come be with me. My contractions are debilitating, and while I am in early labor still, there is nothing I can do to prevent the problems with my blood pressure. There will be no relief by walking or being in other positions. I must lay on my back and suffer through the contractions alone.
Finally, my mother comes after a 2 hour drive. She can’t reach my husband either. She wipes my brow and holds my while I cry in pain. This is not supposed to be how my story goes. My husband shows up five hours after my labor begins, hung over and wearing a shirt that proclaims his ex girlfriend’s name is TULSA, only spelled backwards. He doesn’t say anything to me, just plops himself in a chair on the other side of the room and plays on his phone.
After 12 hours and an emergency C-section my daughter is born. Six weeks premature, but healthy. I hold this miniature version of myself in my arms and ignore everything else. When my husband tries to take the baby from me to hold her, I tell him to wait a bit longer.
I am in no hurry.
It’s 8 am, and this is not my bed.
I fling my arm out to the side expecting to find someone next to me. Instead there is a tangle of covers there, evidence that I slept alone last night.
I put on my glasses, bringing the room into sharp focus. My younger brother’s clothes are folded over the back of his desk chair, the Corvette poster I gave him several years ago hanging above the door. This used to be my room, once upon a time.
I quietly shuffle down the hallway of my parent’s house and to the kitchen. My step dad is already awake, and a fresh pot of coffee is there on the counter. The steam rising from my cup warms my face as I sit down in the living room.
I don’t drink the coffee; I just hold the cup until it goes cold.
It’s 11am, and this is not my car.
The beat up Acura is shaky as I drive up the country road, each divot and rock that crunches under its tires bounce me in the driver’s seat. The seats are cracked with age, and I’m fairly certain something has died in the back seat, which is so littered with boxes I can’t tell where the smell is coming from.
I park at the edge of a drive way, make a phone call and then go inside the old farm house.
I don’t look back.
It’s 1pm, and this is not my reflection.
This person who is staring at me in the mirror looks calm. There are no nerves fluttering in her belly, no bitten down nails, no hair out of place from running around. This woman staring at me has hair that falls in waves around her face, no glasses to hide her eyes, and a bit of lip gloss that my daughter insisted on adding.
I can hear the hubbub of noise down stairs. People arriving, greeting each other, the distinct laughter of my family.
I hide in the room I’ve chosen, looking out over the garden, watching the storm clouds rolling in.
It starts to rain.
Its 2pm, and this is not my father.
Not in the traditional sense anyway. This man chose to be in my life and chose to be my dad. He smiles as I come down the stairs, and my mom hands him tissues as he tears up while we hug. I need the tissue too as we walk together.
The doors close behind us and it begins.
It’s 3pm, and this man is now my husband.
The Viking and I dance together as husband and wife. We’ve kissed, had cake, champagne and toasted our families and friends. We’ve sworn to love and support each other come hell or the zombie apocalypse. I’ve pledged to be the Hermione to his Ron, the Rose to his Doctor, the Leia to his Han, and the Spock to his Kirk. He’s promised to protect me from Weeping Angels, and always make my dreams come true.
There is love everywhere around us.
He kisses me, and my sequel begins.
I’m hugging my daughter while dropping her off outside her school when it happens. The pair of roughened hands I know all too well grab me from behind and hushed threats are growled in my ear. My body responds to the danger immediately, synapses fire, heart beat quickens, and I panic, I thrash in my attackers grasp trying to break free as I’m guided away from my child, who has not noticed her mother being pulled away from the school yard against her will and into a waiting vehicle. I manage to turn around to strike out at my assailant, and a nasty trick is waiting, instead of my ex-husbands face, it’s the Viking’s face smiling at me with cruel words on his lips.
As he strikes me across the face, I wake from the dream, stumble to the bathroom and relieve my stomach of its contents.
I sit in the bathroom on the edge of the tub for awhile, willing myself to go back to bed. I splash my face with water, brush my teeth again, and crawl back under the covers, and lay awake watching the Viking sleep. Logically I know that he would never hurt me. He isn’t my ex. I will myself to relax and close my eyes. Remnants of the dream immediately come to mind. My eyes fly open. There will be no sleep for the rest of the night.
For a very long time my ex-husband told me I was crazy and worthless. I had been in a mental institution, I’d been on several types of anti-psychotic drugs, and had a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. On the best of days I would fantasize about taking my daughter and running away from my life, on the worst of days, I would stare at the guardrail of the freeway and think about driving into oncoming traffic. I’d get home from a job that triggered memories of abuse at the hands of my father and walk in to a husband who would verbally and sexually abuse me.
I finally got the nerve up to leave, terrified that my illness would be used as a tool to keep my daughter from me. He tried and thankfully failed.
Flash forward to now. Same job, new husband, different diagnosis. See, it turns out I’m not bipolar. I have PTSD.
Have my dreams stopped? No, but they’re slowly going away. I have a treatment plan that helps with the panic and anxiety, and while my brain still likes to play horrible tricks on me, I’m learning to cope.
I don’t have to be a victim of my past circumstance any longer
Step Two. Place your domesticated Tessa in something akin to her natural habitat. There should be a Viking for love and snuggling, a Bean to watch grow and to nurture, and three felines: Aisling, Jake, and Ember. Note: the habitat MUST have a computer and a high speed internet connection and a plethora of books or your Tessa will fail to thrive.
Step Three. Your Tessa enjoys hobbies such as knitting,singing, writing, and gaming. Try to provide access to materials that allow her to participate.
Step Four. When feeding your Tessa, be sure not to include rice or honey dew melons in her meals. She will become ill and need medical care. You should also not add such things as gluten or dairy or crab to her diet. She will complain and say she can eat it, this is a clever ruse and is not to be listened to. Especially around cheese. If your domesticated Tessa breaks free of her habitat, hide yo cheese.
You are now ready to enjoy your Tessa!
My ass? Fucking amazing.
Just thought you all should know.