Tag: family

this is me trying

I just don’t know what to do anymore. I have talked, hinted, blogged, poeted, texted, reacted, proacted, and nothing has changed. Why do men continue to think that it is a woman’s job to assume a motherly role? There are not strict gender roles any longer for majority thinkers.

I can take the trash out, do the litter box, get myself up for appointments, and get things done, whether I outsource those jobs or do them myself. I don’t need a man, I need a partner (unless I want to be single, then I need myself, the cats, and Ollie Bear).

Don’t want to do the “dirty work”? Choose the more desirable tasks without being asked or told and those are what you get. If you unload the dishwasher and consider that your part, guess what the other person is doing? Loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. My brother and I had that chore after school and he would run home (he pushed me down a hill a couple of times to get home before me) so he could unload the dishes and I would have to touch the dirty, gross ones. If the dishwasher was empty and just needed loaded, he made sure I got home before he did. Siblings are great, huh 😂😂? But leave the decision-making to someone else and at their discretion, you’re on 💩 duty every time; quite literally with a puppy and blind cat. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

My guts are spilling out (literally) and I’m still doing more than my part. Taylor dropped a lyric from the new album and it sums it up well, as she tends to do: Even statues crumble if they’re made to wait. I have seen a lot of instances where men and women think their partners will stay around because their parents stayed together regardless of how they were treated. I am not like that. My mom became a strong woman and taught me there is a limit and I can certainly stand my ground and say enough is enough (and I will).

I have changed everything for the loml in the last ten years. I went from having a caretaker my entire life, briefly having two in Mom and Adam for three years, to running an entire household by myself, having an independent, and trying to figure out everything. Mom didn’t know she was going to die and I would be flying solo. I think she thought if she didn’t make plans and preparations, she possibly could not die, which I totally get. She taught me many things but not everything (do parents ever get the opportunity to teach their children everything they want to before they die?).

I mean, I paid Mom’s house off with her life insurance by mailing a very large personal check via the post office… Obviously, that was incredibly stupid but I did not know that was a no-no because I knew about traveler’s checks but not certified checks or other secure ways to make transactions, like money orders, in 2014. I just knew I needed to get it done so I wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage. The house bank called and asked if I was attempting to pay the house off and I think I started crying and told them what was going on. They were very helpful and took care of it for me.

All this is on top of living with someone who was too emotionally abused and stunted for me to be able to be myself. I never had to pretend or suppress with Mom when I got older because she was used to me and would back off and let me regulate on my own. Now, when I’m overwhelmed and need to decompress, I am asked “what’s wrong?” constantly until I answer or he marches off in a huff.

Even though we have a nephew on the spectrum, I am not supposed to behave or react out of neurotypical character. I have always had such expectations placed on me when other family wasn’t held to the same. I was supposed to be the good girl, the polite one, never speak up, never confront, let things go, etc. I cannot become irrationally frustrated or physical with things or have my entire mood ruined because one small thing was not as I expected or wanted it. That results in me containing everything, and my mental and physical health deteriorates until I can barely function and I break instead of merely snapping.

I really don’t ask for much, seriously. I want a relatively clean home free of ants or ladybugs (which means food and drink and trash not left all over the house), a mowed and trimmed lawn, and things repaired around the house. We’ve had a roof leak in the bathroom forever that should have been repaired a long time ago. But instead of getting it done, he’s going to wait until the ceiling caves in and then try to comfort me when I lose my 💩 because I don’t have the money to fix the roof or the ceiling.

When I just stop to see how bad he lets things get, it’s pointed out to me as soon as I fuss at him (well, you left this out and that there; you do this and that; you act this way; everything is a comparison with no responsibility taken, ever).

Of course, I’m the dramatic and unreasonable one for wanting it fixed yesterday, or wanting anything done, really. I already have to figure out how to replace the floors and subfloors in the kitchen, living room, and Mom’s room on my own because of the cats. I didn’t grow up in garbage and I don’t like being forced to live in it just because someone else did and has zero self-respect. Love and support are not the only things one needs.

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Stick a Fork in Me; I’m Done

I worked on my Shakespeare PowerPoint presentation for hours and a couple of hours after submission, my teacher emailed me to let me know how bad it was and that it didn’t make sense. For context, I love making PowerPoints because I can be very creative with them and every teacher before this one has loved them; most recently, my literary theory professor.

Madness in HamletDownload

I spent most of the day crying and jerking (I don’t know why I jerk) before finally taking my anxiety medication and getting some sleep. My perfectionism did not let me not submit my final paper. I had most of it done, anyway.

On a good note, Taylor’s new album comes out in one day!! It is also Mom’s death anniversary, but I have something to smile about on that day finally. It is a little light in the dark that has been the last couple of weeks.

I don’t remember if I mentioned it here but I changed my pup’s name to Oliver instead of Oswald. He just does not seem badass enough to be an Ozzy 😂. He has taken the change quite well and we call him Ollie. Adam calls him Oliver Twist, so I guess he is Oliver Twist Hemingway. He has been very helpful with reducing my stress since he is pretty cuddly, but, like Neville, he wants to lick my face when we are facing each other.

And, my goodness, these boys are so jealous! When I take them out to pee, Neville gets back on the porch before Ollie and gets on my lap. I found out yesterday that Nev’s head comes to my shoulder when he is standing on his back legs, which he can take several steps like this (it’s kinda creepy, like the Scooby Doo movie). I introduced Ollie to my sensory room and we lay on my soft rug and Mom’s Steeler throw. He did pretty well being still. I really need to get a video of him jumping off the porch; it is hilarious. I want to make a little red cape with an O on it.

Sorry for all the April Showers

Huh. WP PC app is back to normal, so I don’t know what that was all about.

It’s April again, and I thought things would get easier but that isn’t the case. April 10, National Siblings Day, marked five years since my brother died. He didn’t even make it to 40. We weren’t physically close as he lived in a different state and neither of us liked using the phone, but I adored him and loved when he came to visit or I went to his house. After Mom died, I got the best sleep and rest when I stayed with him and his family for a weekend.

April 19th will make 10 years since Mom died. That is also the date of Taylor Swift’s new album, so I will have something to smile about at least. Mom and I were/are longtime fans since Tim McGraw. I cannot believe it has been a decade that she has been gone. I wish there was an AI program that could create her voice. All I have for that is an answering machine outgoing message that I captured on my phone after she died. No videos. No recordings.

I don’t sound like her, so I can’t even record myself and pretend it’s her. I sound more like my dad, unfortunately. My birthday is at the end of the month, 10 days after Mom died. I don’t celebrate it. Depression and trauma covers an entire month for me! I will be 29 again this year, per usual. Just like Phineas is 11 months old every year. He is my baby and always will be.

I was banned from Reddit again but only for 7 days this time. I made a comment that I don’t like the F-word and wish people would stop using it and someone called me a baby, so I tagged Adam in it. Adam made a comment to this guy, so the loser got Adam banned from the sub and when I participated in another post in the same sub, I was banned for “ban evasion” because the idiots at Reddit cannot comprehend that more than one person in a household can have a Reddit account. I really, really hate Reddit with a passion but I have no other social outlet. X is a cesspool as well, and Facebook isn’t really that active since they screwed up the feed and don’t show recent posts first. I don’t get Tumblr, although I do have an account I reactivated yesterday.

I appealed Reddit’s decision, again, and was turned down, again. It makes my blood boil, but I am trying to keep my mouth shut. Reddit workers and moderators are such fascists with too much time on their hands. They have subreddits with any type of porn (made up of Reddit users) one can imagine, subs for photos of upskirt shots (not consenual), and some of the most disgusting fetish subs, but I get banned because some pissant can dish it out but not take it when my husband defends me. It has not been a good month 😒.

I guess this month makes a year since I started this site/blog. Yay, me! Why do we use the word “yay” when the correct spelling is “yea”? I do it because people think I just made a typo while trying to say “yeah.” Why do people just take it upon themselves to change the way things are spelled and then claim that is what is correct? Like “could of, should of, would of.” Or, one of the worst phrases, “I could care less.” You’re not stating you really don’t care by saying you could actually care less than you do. Come on, people. If you could not tell, I am very cranky at the moment. It seems like it was New Years just last week.

In my next post, I will talk about how utterly insufferable Adam is because of Neville!! If only I had listened to myself. (Do I ever??) Also, we will be losing one of our babies very soon.

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Elephant Blue, Dilly Dilly

I have a poetry workshop this semester and have finished this week’s work. We were to do a couple of writing exercises that will be the base for poems. I’ve not attended a poetry workshop before so I don’t know how this works. I took workshops for statistics class, which was great and super helpful, but not something that dealt with creativity. I had to choose a couple of prompts from the required reading and free write, which is another thing I’m not experienced in, most likely because of AuDHD hindrances. 

Now, this required reading mentions people not being able to write a poem in 20 or 30 minutes and makes it sound impossible to actually do so, and that made me question its credibility completely. When I have an idea for a poem, I will sit there and write or type it out in a few minutes. I don’t make a chore out of it (I don’t write every day, either, so that might have something to do with it). 

Also, it was published in 1997 and devotes two chapters to getting recognized and getting published, as in subscribing to magazines and using 🐌 mail. I don’t know why there aren’t newer editions, especially since it’s required material for the class. It’s very common for school books to be updated in subsequent editions. 

Anyway, the prompts I chose were the base for Elephant Blue, Dilly Dilly and Taily Pole that I decided to share here 😊. I have to squeeze poems out of these two writings. Talk about a challenge! 

Elephant Blue, Dilly Dilly

There is a stuffed blue elephant that sits in my spare room.  It was a point of contention for years.  There is nothing special about this stuffed animal.  It is the blue of a summer sky.  Its neck no longer supports its head, most likely due to the nighttime chokeholds it’s endured.  The body is neither soft nor coarse, and the stuffing is that weird stuff that just feels wrong and unpleasant, a slightly more malleable version of that green Styrofoam found in the bottom of floral arrangements.  I can feel and hear it rubbing and crinkling every time I pick the toy up.  It sets my teeth on edge.  I wonder why it didn’t when I was a child.  Maybe it did and I ignored it out of spite. 

This unremarkable, cheap blue elephant was at the center of many underwhelming moonlit “fights” between my brother and me.  Wherever the elephant (not even important enough to have earned a name) began its night, it ended up in a different bed in a different room by morning.  No words were spoken.  No punches were thrown.  Simply here today and gone tomorrow.  Our level of tiredness would dictate how many trips the elephant made in a night. 

My brother, two years older and the opposite sex, took great pleasure in annoying me and making me cry.  The elephant, possibly a prize from one of the crappy games at the county fair, possibly given to one of us by our deadbeat dad who still held hero status at our ages, was an easy rise for both of us, two kids who inherited their father’s temper and temperament. 

I’m not sure what importance the elephant held or if it was merely a pawn in a game I could play with my brother without fearing physical repercussions.  It stayed behind with my mom and me when my brother moved in with Dad at 16.  I was happy he was gone for about a week and then I was done with this new game of being an only child and I wanted my Bub back.  The elephant was forgotten about, tucked away in the closet, then in a black trash bag with other stuffed toys.  I had clearly won but I didn’t really care.

The elephant moved with us to a new home, then went with me when I was briefly married.  Upon returning to Mom’s, the toy was tucked away, still in a bag, in a storage unit, and then at my aunt and uncle’s.  Time passed.  Dad died.  Mom died.  I remarried; my brother gave me away to my new husband.  Bub died.  I now had room at Mom’s house for my stuff, so everything from my aunt and uncle’s house was returned to me.

So many memories!  A stuffed clown with buttons and zippers, a homemade Care Bear with an A stitched on its chest, and that glorious Blue Elephant.  He is magnificent; the beautiful blue of a summer sky, floppy and worn in.  Precious memories contained in this priceless stuffed Elephant. 

Taily Pole

I come from a decent-sized family on my mom’s side.  I grew up with the Parents (Grandma and Papaw), the Kids (my mom and her four siblings), the Spouses (except for Mom) and the Grandkids (me and my 8 cousins).  Every weekend, we had almost a complete turnout of the family with the exception of one aunt and uncle who lived four hours away.  This changed as we got older, with cousins getting into dating or school sports, but it stayed true for years.  I’m the second youngest of the Grandkids, so Papaw and Grandma were getting up there in age.

Being the younger of the Grandkids, I loved hearing Papaw tell stories, which was a rare treat.  One story in particular, Taily Pole, was a favorite of everyone, not because of the story itself, but because of how it was told by Papaw.  It was most effective when he told us the story outside.  We frequently had cookouts in the cooler months, complete with marshmallows to roast.  Getting comfortable was a feat; sitting near the fire was way too hot, sitting away from the fire was way too cold.  It never failed that someone would drag blankets out of the house with one being confiscated by those sitting on the ground. 

Once everyone was nice and cozy, we grandkids would beg Papaw to tell Taily Pole.  No other story was ever requested during these cookouts.  He would do the obligatory hemming and hawing while all of us grandkids pestered him to the point of acquiescence.  Wrapped up in his own blanket and sitting on a patio chair in the mouth of the single-car garage/potato cellar, he would start the story off low and slow. 

The younger ones couldn’t help but giggle in anticipation.  We knew what was coming, yet we didn’t know how soon and how animatedly it would be delivered.  When Papaw got to the end of the story, he bugged his eyes, magnified by his glasses, and leaned forward, shouting, “I ain’t got your taily pole!”  The story always ended the same and there were always a few who squeaked out of shock, which set everyone else off laughing.  I was usually one of the squeakers but also one who wanted to hear it again and again. 

Years after Papaw died, one of my uncles told Taily Pole to the Great-Grandkids.  I smiled with delight and excitement seeing the little heads poking out of blankets, hearing the nervous laughter, watching the kids, eyes and smiles bright, looking around to see if Mom and Dad were listening, watching the flames flicker in my uncle’s glasses as he bugged his eyes, leaned forward, and shouted, “I ain’t got your taily pole!”

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