*bits

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I’ve had writer’s block yet have been yearning to write. I have written so many posts only to delete them in a fit of self doubt.
Friday night and I’m watching Netflix and eating Little Debbie snack cakes. The people going up and down the stairs outside my apartment sound like they may be a thousand pounds.
Tonight at bedtime Cole wanted to talk about Heaven. We are reading “Peter Pan” and he kept interrupting me.
“What do you do there? What does it look like? Do you think it’s all clouds?”
I try and answer as best and as honestly as I can, but tell him I don’t know anything for sure because I’ve never been there. He seems satisfied and allows me to read on. His hair! Oh his hair. He is growing it out, and it is currently in a phase that screams No One Cares. He looks like an orphan, truly. I smooth that hair away from his forehead, kiss his rounded cheek.
There is a nice cool breeze coming through my open window. I can’t wait to go to bed, hope that I will be able to sleep. I’ll watch a little more T.V. and be glad I don’t have to work tomorrow. I try not to worry about the usual things.

Grandma

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“Happy birthday!” I sing into the phone, holding it out. I motion for him to chime in.
“Happy birthday,” he says dutifully.
“We love you!” I hang up the phone. I knew she would be out with her friends, but thought I might catch her in between parties. She is out being celebrated by many, many friends.
She is eighty six years old today…Grandma.

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She picks me up in the car she’s had for thirteen years, the car she will only take to the dealership for service, service that she takes care of religiously. The car smells of Pond’s and her perfume and a tinge of new car-ness. She is proud of herself for finding me, tells me she hasn’t been downtown in ages. She looks to me for direction and I point the way. We are on our way to pick up Cole at school.
“Now you know he’s gonna want ice cream,” she says. I don’t want to inconvenience her anymore than I already have, insist she just take us home. I know we will be stopping for ice cream…

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She had three little girls when her abusive husband walked out on her, leaving her with nothing. She worked her way up from bus driver to teacher in a special education facility. She kept a house and made sure those little girls had everything they needed, and she did it on her own. I wish I could be half as strong a woman as she is.

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We have always been close; when I was young it didn’t matter where she was going, I wanted to go with her. We went on trips, camping. I am her “baby girl” and she is my everything. When I tell my mom I’m running away, I am of course going to her. If I get in trouble for something, I beg my mom not to tell her. She thinks I’m perfect, and I don’t want to do anything to mar that picture.

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Yesterday I called and asked her for a favor, a ride, and without hesitation she asks where she should pick me up. I can always count on her, no matter what. But, she tells me, she has to hurry home because she has dinner plans. She has the most active social life of anyone I know. I am just grateful to be able to spend those few precious moments with her.

Happy Birthday Grandma.

“Fell on…”

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Black day today; I am far, far down the rabbit hole. I hate feeling like this. I want to pull the covers over my head, yell obscenities until my throat hurts. But there was still dinner to be made, a shower, so I forced myself to get up. It’s so hard.

My anxiety is full on right now, feel like I’m going to come out of my skin. I have tried all my coping mechanisms from Group, and still feel like the world is crashing down around me. I can’t shake the feeling that something horrible is going to happen. Eyes are swollen from a stolen cry in the bathroom.

No fancy conclusion for this one. Only to tell myself and anyone out there to hang in there, tomorrow can only get better…. Depression lies.

Random Bits

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I’ve never made money from my blog. I’ve never been given a free trip, never been on TV. Hell, I’m excited when my stats go above 30. I don’t write for any of those things. I write for myself, and if someone out there can relate, all the better.

I struggle with the amount of honesty I want to have. Sometimes I’m like Fuck it and want to vomit up all my problems across the screen, and other times I get paranoid and scared of being judged. Yes, I’m human and things…words…can hurt me. Opening myself, raw and vulnerable for all to see, takes a lot of courage. Sometimes I’m brave, sometimes I’m not.

Tomorrow is my last day of Group. After that, it’s back to the real world. Being in this program has been like being in a safe little bubble, and it’s about to be popped. I’m so nervous about going back to work…I’m afraid people will KNOW somehow, that I took a little break for some crazy.

So I keep writing, and living, and plugging away. Glad you’re along for the ride.

Tires

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Coming down the highway today and I hear a “pop” and the car starts shaking. I pull to the side and sure enough, I’ve popped a tire. Traffic is tearing down the road as I try and remember if I have a spare tire. I have to have someone get Cole at school, that’s where I was headed. I call my dad and at the sound of his voice I break down. My hands shake. He assures me that he’ll get Cole and I call Triple A. Of course, I have used all my calls for the year. But they will come out and change my tire for a fee. As I am finishing up with them, I see the flashing lights behind me. A cop.

I tell him that I’ve called Triple A and he shakes his head, tells me that I can’t be stopped where I am. I feel tears starting as he tells me if they don’t come right now he will have to call a tow truck. I can’t afford that! I start to cry in earnest. Like a miracle, a truck full of city workers pulls up. One of them graciously offers to put my spare on. Thank you! But the spare is flat.

“Look,” I tell the cop, salty tears streaking down my cheeks, “I’ll drive it right to the gas station and get air in the spare. I only live right down the road. Please.”

Probably sick of dealing with me, he reluctantly agrees. He says he will follow me just in case. I pull out into traffic and haven’t even gone a few feet when I hear the unmistakable sound of a flat tire spinning. The spare is flat. Fuck. Ignoring my common sense, I just keep going. For some reason I have it in my head that everything will be alright if I just make it to the gas station. I grit my teeth and keep driving, a horrible sound coming from the road under my tire. I pull into the gas station, finally, a cloud of smoke billowing. The cop gets out, looks at the tire, shakes his head. I grin at him.

“At least I’m not on the highway!” I say brightly, and he shakes his head again, tells me to get better tires. He leaves and I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it to the gas station. I wait for my dad and try not to have a panic attack. Deep breaths. I made it.

Boy

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He tells me he wants to grow his hair out, because that would make him look so cool. “And Mom,” he says excitedly, “what if my hair was long and I wore the leather jacket to school?” Oh my gosh, I tell him, he would be the coolest ever.

He will play his tablet until the world stops, if we let him. He insists on telling me all about the games, though I don’t understand a word. He likes to text me, and I am amazed at how fast he can go. I hear his giggle from his room and he texts “pooooop. Lol” Such a boy.

He tells me he doesn’t need good night kisses anymore, but hugs are okay and he still needs sprinkled with magic dust to keep the bad dreams away. His animals stand guard on the side of his bed. His room glows with his fish tank and lava lamp. I love him so much I can’t catch my breath, and I worry I have already fucked him up. I vow and try harder tomorrow, just like I do every night. I want every day to be his best day.

He calls out for one more drink, one more blanket fix. He says Mom in a way that will always remain in my heart. I ruffle his shaggy hair and step out again, closing the door softly behind me. My boy sleeps soundly.

Bits

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Second group is the worst; there aren’t that many of us so one of the counselors are sure to try and make you talk. Some days I just don’t feel like it; like a little kid I am resentful and want to pout in the corner. I notice that I move around in my seat a lot…around here that’s a sign of anxiety and I’m supposed to be super aware of it so I can try and bring it down. Sometimes it even works. I jiggle my leg so fast that the counselor sitting next to me places a hand on my shoulder to get me to stop. I am certain that this will go in my chart somewhere: “client has restless leg and is obviously completely crazy”.

Yesterday my mom called me crying. She’s worried about me. The only way I can show her that I’ll be okay is by being okay. Time is not my friend; right now she only has the past to go on. All of my communication skills go out the window; I get defensive and cry back at her. We are both worried about the same things, just in different ways. I hate disappointing her. I want to tell her it will be alright, but she wouldn’t believe me anyway. I miss being her baby.