I started my day off at around 6am reading an article that has stuck with me since, and consequently resulted in my saying fuck in my head and outloud more than I thought possible – even for me. The point of it was about measuring your preferences and focus by number of “fucks given” and how what you give a fuck about says about you and your real direction, maturity etc. It highlighted for me that I don’t give a fuck about what I should, and give a few fucks about things I probably shouldn’t. Also, that I’m giving less fucks in general all the time.
What do I give a fuck about? Getting fat. I’m getting fat. After being in surgical menopause I’m on hormone replacement shit and it’s bad. Whoever the fuck said this would be easy? No one. Ever.
I give a fuck about the weird scar and swelling I have in my pelvic region now after the abscess and infection. Its fucking weird looking and not attractive. I give a fuck about not being attractive. I hate that.
I give a fuck about the fucking car I drive, and won’t drive a piece of shit Chevy, motherfuckers. I will drive a Subaru, even if it’s got 200,000 miles and is a rust hole. I don’t know what that even is, but I’d drive the shit out of it anyway. No. Fucking. Chevy’s. Bitches.
Apparently I’m losing my mind, wits, marbles – whatever. I lost things, let’s put it that way. And I can’t seem to find them. To be quite honest, I’m not sure where to look and I’ve procrastinated a bit. Okay, I haven’t looked.
My brain isn’t working, I cannot make myself do things I don’t like and I much prefer altered states of consciousness. Not conducive to my life and it’s not working out well. I seem to recently have these new rules for myself that are quite limiting. For example, I’m not allowed to leave the house after dark on a weeknight. It’s bad. This restricts movie watching at a theatre. And I must have the option of being in bed by 9:30, never mind the fact that rarely happens. No phone conversations after work. Or at work. They’re exhausting. Absolutely no doing anything different. Nope, not me. I will do the same goddamn things until my tracks are so ingrained I can’t see out of them. Ask me why? I have no idea. I know better, and chose less. Maybe removing body parts will make things different. Maybe they’ll find my wits in there, and they’ve just been hiding in my uterus. I wouldn’t blame them, it’s nice, dark and warm.
I’m on a mission. Mostly to do things I wouldn’t normally. You see, though I’m really honest here, in the non-internet/cloud world I try to fit in and refrain from boat rocking for the most part. Thoughts stay in my head if I’m in control, and had enough sleep (or not if I’m in the car alone). I’m now seeking a middle ground. If I find someone attractive, I’ll tell them. If I want to go up to a stranger and strike up a conversation about their belt buckle because I’m shocked that their able to walk around with the weight, well then I will. And what better place to kick it into high gear than tonight at a Willie Nelson concert!
I’ve been debating on what to wear all day. A t-shirt with another band’s graphic? A cowboy hat? Jeans, cut offs, shorts, tank top… the list goes on. You may be wondering why I’m even wasting my time because, who gives a fuck what you wear, no one cares, right?! Wrong. I do. So I’m walking over to Urban Outfitters now to buy a way over priced Dolly Parton t-shirt because it’s fucking awesome and quite possibly the most perfect thing to wear to a Willie Nelson show. HA!
I wish I had something really smart to say about all this. I got nothin’. It’s been around 6 months since I’ve written anything on this blog, mostly because I forgot about it. Today I remembered, wishing I had someone to talk at, that would just listen and nod in agreement. Here we are, you and I, go ahead and nod away.
Many endings and changes since December: my relationship ending, kids moving out, sanity gone. Not much would ever surprise me , or so I thought. Then I found a cyst and my right ovary, had it removed in April. Doctors determined it was ovarian cancer, stage 1. I’ll be going back in two weeks from today to have all the rest taken out, including my appendix. Then chemo for a bit. I’ll be in menopause and require HRT.
It’s an odd thing, having cancer. It’s exactly what you think it would be like – full of denial, resistance, disbelief and all that, and I don’t have anything major, really. Just need to do a clean sweep and I should be okay…fingers crossed. It makes you ask a lot of existential questions; tease the unimportant from the truly valuable, and examine what control you do or don’t have. It’s exhausting. And enlightening. I’ve decided I really want to be happy. I REALLY WANT TO BE HAPPY! Did you hear me? And I’m not. I don’t think I ever have been. Most of what I do, most of the time, is not making me happy. I know all the bull shit about choices, and focus and gratitude – I’m a fucking therapist for Christ’s sake. But really, it takes doing something different, not just changing your self talk. That’s where I am now, anyway. I’m sure it will change. My intent is to write about it for a while and see where I go.
Um, this office may be killing me. I believe all the fun life has been sucked out of me and I’m turning into a non-person. Which is what HR people become: non-people. My clothes are becoming more bland, lipstick a shade more neutral and earrings just a bit smaller. Less attention grabbing. Mmmmm, that’s fun.
Did I mention the Halloween costume conversation around the kitchen microwave today? Some stupid little shit is going as a princess – imagine that. Never happened before. Ever. You might as well go ahead and give her the “you’re worthless unless men love you, and by the way your boobs are small” talk, because that’s where the princess outfits ultimately get you. Get her boobs done now, why don’t ya! Get it over with. God forbid we come up with another kind of ultimate dream for little girls.
Ahhhh, that’s better. Just enough and now I can get through traffic. It’s Friday! My kids are 18 and NOT in jail! No one is going to starve if I don’t cook and I may just read the night away with a bottle of wine. Not. Too. Shabby.
Just when I think you’ve undermined my parental authority to the furthest extent humanly possible, you surpass yourself flying mid-air. Let me just explain some things you might have missed during our recent conversations. I’ll try to be brief, as I’m sure you have my kids to coddle, make excuses for, buy things for, pick up, drive around, challenge my authority with, baby, and feed (because apparently there is no food in my house). Aren’t you sick of this yet? I sure am.
Here are a few points I would like you to take in- just take them in and let them move around inside you for awhile until you become aware of their existence. Then you might begin to think about something other than pleasing your husband, God and everyone else – with the exception of me of course, which I’ve not come to understand yet. I’ll work on that next, when I’m done fighting you off my kids.
There are reasons we aren’t close, many of which you have not ever begun to consider
You are NOT my kids mom, that’s me, remember?
Your opinion of anything does not supersede mine, I don’t give a rats ass how old you are, you sure haven’t lived long
I’m in charge of my daughter and son, you’re in charge of church and yourself
When you tell my daughter my opinion, rules, approach, and really all that I am – is wrong and you actually ignore me and do what you want for and/or with my daughter, you’re creating an impossible situation for us all. I believe it’s called “Triangulation”.
If you continue to rescue my daughter from her rules at my house, she will be living at your house, permanently
You are teaching her how to manipulate and underhandedly cheat in relationships. Not okay.
Monday morning starts off with my alarm working perfectly. Apparently I am not. Never heard a sound from 5:45 am when the alarm began it’s attempts to arouse me, until I actually woke up (primarily because it was so damn bright in my bedroom) at 8:30 am.
As I rush around to make coffee and gather my wits, my non-working or going to school 17 year old, (who will be working by Tuesday, AND enrolled in an online program or she’ll be lacking a house and food) strolls out of her room in a perky mood, looking beautiful and well refreshed, asking if she may have some coffee while humming a tune. Why does this make me hate her more than I already do? One can infer, I have my own reasons.
Now it’s 11:45 am and I’m still attempting to ingest enough coffee to lose the puffy eyes and co-workers are microwaving their lunch, making the whole place smell like food – yuck! Half my day is missing and I’m trying to catch the hell up. And write about it. Because writing about it helps. And takes up more time. And I work better under pressure.