It’s Monday. It’s Martin Luther King Day. Wow. I haven’t written anything since November 11, 2015. That is a long time. Do I even still remember how to write? We will see, won’t we? Where have I been? Sick. I have been sick with pneumonia all this time. My husband had pneumonia which led to him being unable to work for two weeks. The only blessing was that the kids never got sick once. He got better. I didn’t. Go figure. I mean, I have no trains to catch, no job outside the home, so who truly gives a rat’s ass if I ever get well? It has been a long, depressing road. We survived the holidays. The internet was off at our house all this time. I had the internet on my phone, but nowhere else. Honestly, I didn’t feel well enough to waddle from my bed to the bathroom, let alone write. I kept a low profile and flew under the radar battling depression, my own demons, and making a minute by minute attempt to literally cough up my vagina and every bodily fluid I could possibly possess. Have you ever coughed so hard that you literally peed your pants? Or worse? I have been there and done that and, this time, didn’t even have the joyous excuse of being pregnant.
So here I am! For those of you that wondered if I died, you didn’t get that lucky. I am still struggling along somehow with my messed up humor and special brand of sarcasm very much intact. With that said I’ll be giving this writing thing another go. I am older, struggling with mental-pause hormones. The up- side is that my doctor finally figured out that perhaps I needed a bit of medicinal help with that situation when I shared that I normally step out on my back stoop in subzero temps in my underwear, barefoot…in the snow, because I am sweating my ass off. Behavior like that doesn’t really help the whole attempt to get over pneumonia.
I have discovered a few things about myself during this time period, though. The first, and perhaps the most important is that I giggle when I am nervous and uncomfortable. It isn’t because I am particularly happy. I also laugh hysterically when I am amused, which still happens quite regularly. I talk entirely too much when prompted. I probably share things I relate with and am amused by entirely too much on Facebook. I am perhaps a bit too honest for most people’s tastes and probably a whole lot inappropriate. I am convinced that it is a public service for me to isolate myself as much as possible which is why I hide behind writing fiction and haiku. I also realize that I am just not that great of a writer, but I am OK with that now. I will write for the fun of it and see how it goes and have absolutely no illusions that I belong at the top of any writing heap. Sometimes you just need to let it out and vent. Sometimes you simply have to realize that God never abandoned you after all and you are OK. And then sometimes, you need to quit caring so much, and simply try again. That is what I am attempting to do.
It is where I go to cope with the demons in my head. The ones that tell me I am no good and my life has no purpose. It is a place for those moments when I look in the mirror and see for my undiscerning eye why my husband doesn’t come home, and why he hasn’t been home for so long.
It is in that dark place in my mind where I forget that he left because his job requires him too and has nothing to do with me personally. It is not because of the ugly, fat woman that I see staring back at me in the mirror and will always stare back at me no matter how many pounds I lose or what others see. Bills must be paid. We must survive. It is what he does. It is only me who has lost my way. It is me who can no longer sleep through the night because I have to pee NOW. It is me who needs the damn anti depressants to get through each day, not the real me who once seemed so strong. Where did that girl go that giggled uncontrollably at just about anything? It is in this peaceful setting by the sea I retreat to find her once again hoping if only I could find her; I would once again find my purpose for being. It is there I know without a shadow of doubt that I could find any hope of recapturing my youth before I lose it entirely. It is inside those four walls I may find a shred of sanity and the happiness this enemy called menopause and anxiety has stolen from me. That is my doctor’s excuse for all these dark thoughts that I struggle with. Where is that girl who would sooner say “Fuck you Menopause!!? You can kiss my happy ass!” before effectively dropping her drawers and mooning all who care to see? Damned if I should know, but I sure do wish she would get her happy ass back here before I go barking mad.
I sit inside and listen to the clock tick and the sea lap onto the shore. It is here I cuddle my dogs close and occasionally nuzzle my daughter’s cat. My fur babies love me no matter what and feeding them helps to flame that undying love. I am not so far gone that I don’t realize that. Any devotion is appreciated at this point. It is here I wait for them all to return to me. All music has left me. I don’t even think to turn on the CD player. There is no desire to find a beat or rhythm. There is only the reality of my desperate hope that somewhere among the ashes my soul will rise and soar again. Life is passing me by and I have all but lost the will to stop it. If only I could. My husband will return as he always does but what will he find? Will I be afraid to leave the safety of this haven even for him? Will I trust he will be happy to see me? I won’t think on that now. I will think about it on the faraway tomorrow when he finally returns. I will think of it then and force myself to smile each afternoon when the school bus returns because besides all these warring feelings, I really am happy to envelope both of those precious beings with my undying love for them.
I sit inside this small abode and watch the storm clouds of my emotions swirl struggling through each day praying that one day I will laugh again and my silly will return full time and not just for an occasional glimmer. It is my safe haven. It is where I go to process the feelings that bring me down and overwhelm me. I withdraw into my own little shelter beside the sea as the storm clouds gather and the hormones rage. I am not ready for this. I am not ready to be old. It is why I grasp desperately for any new signs of purpose and life: a class, a new job, just anything!! Like countless before me and even more who follow, I guess I don’t have a choice. I need to just handle it. It will be soon time to wade back into the deep end and leave this peaceful retreat. Until then, I will put it off and try to embrace what I don’t understand. I will retreat within and pray for peace longing to discover the inner flame that I once had.
Welcome to day 22 of BlogFest 2012!! Today’s writing prompt is brought to us today by Betty at Today’s Baker.
What can be hot and cold? Well let’s see, men, women, the weather, food, women who are hormonal, and all the above. Why do I feel like dancing and singing the heat and snow miser song and kicking up my heels?? Living in the heart of the Midwest I get my fill of one day hot and the next day cold every fall. This week in particular has been a great example of that. Today it reached 75 degrees. Tomorrow the forecast is on the opposite end of the spectrum with the high only expected to reach 51 degrees tops and a low temperature plummeting to 34 degrees. It is quite the drastic difference, but fairly normal for this time of year. You aren’t quite sure whether to run the air conditioner or the heat. Course half the time I am not sure whether to wind my a$$ or my watch anyways so I wing it. It is just enough temperature change to insure that most people will be sick as hell and death warmed over by Monday after a weekend of rollercoaster temperatures and living life to the max. If they aren’t sick, they will be calling in to proclaim they are sick simply because if they didn’t catch the latest bug their kids have and they are sure to have it SOON.
As far as the hormonal tidal waves of hot and cold go, I am approaching the golden age when I can expect to be hotter than the blazes of hell even if I am standing half naked in a$$ deep snow in sub zero temperatures. On second thought, maybe I am already there! I am the nut who has to have it cold in the bedroom to sleep and pay absolutely no never mind to traipsing out barefooted in the snow to dig up a dog leash in my nightgown. A lot of that is because I am simply to lazy to be bothered with shoes, after all it isn’t that far to go and not that long I will be out in the elements so WHY waste my time with shoes and a coat? Yeah, I am different that way. Usually I am half asleep and half past give a $hit when I let the dogs out to whiz in the center of the night anyway. A person can’t be expected to dress appropriately then, right? Besides I can count the minutes until I will be snug as a bug and warm in my little bed once again. My husband is paranoid about being seen, but I really don’t care. With half the world women and the other half men, chances are you are one or the other so what’s the big deal? Most people have seen it before. Every now and then you will see someone that has all the parts, which is different and definitely a reason to stare, but if you are normal there really is no big deal. Maybe you just got to air it out.
I am going to go off on a tangent, so bear with me. If I have to drink water it has got to be ice cold. No other kind of water will do. I don’t want to just wet my whistle. I want to be refreshed. In my world, soup was meant to be HOT. It should always be hot, end of story. One time I was staying at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island and they served cold cucumber soup for dinner in the dining room as a precursor to prime rib. I remember it well. When you stay at the Grand Hotel, they expect you to dress for dinner. You can’t just waltz in wearing a t shirt and jeans. They expect women in a dress and men to be in dress pants and a dinner jacket. Seriously, I kid you not. I waltzed in hungry enough to eat the a$$hole out of a skunk and they served me cold green soup. Ewwww!!! I thought they had FORGOT to cook it, then realized they MEANT to serve it that way. Needless to say, after our expensive dinner we went back to the room, changed into normal vacation clothes (casual shirt and jeans) and walked to town and ate our fill of burgers and fries at a local bar.
Considering I had absolutely no clue what I would write for this prompt letting my mind ramble has got me a blog written which is good enough for me until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
You can’t please everyone. On some days you may be hard pressed to please anyone. On other days even pleasing oneself seems out of reach. At that point everyone sees you for the piece of work you truly are. I have struggled with the people pleaser thing my whole entire life. Even now when my attitude borders on a half past give a $hit mentality, I still care deep down. I probably will always care inside which just pisses me off. There have been few times in my life when I have really tried to please myself. I have always been trying my damnedest to please everyone else. The result has left me depressed and defiant because I simply can’t. Worse yet, no one else is lining up trying to please me either.
Over the years I have gradually evolved into the person I am now. I have given up on pleasing some people because they were hell bent on hating me and making my life a torturous hell on earth no matter what I did. It became clearer to me when not that long ago I once again treated someone with kindness only to have them dig deep into their imaginations to make up lies and imagined slights. I don’t understand what is wrong with some people. What I do understand is that I have zero patience for people like this. I can’t please them. They are never happy and if others are happy they are hell bent to destroy it. My walls have gone up and I have retreated into my present isolation. Sadly, I am happiest in solitude. Why? You can never please everyone.
The day I can look into the mirror and feel that I have truly pleased myself will probably be a happy day indeed. I am not there yet. If I were, I would feel happy and I don’t. I have slipped into the depths of despair once again. Perhaps it is the dreaded mid life crisis that one always hears about that grips me now. You know that loony time in life when normally sane people leave everything behind to “FIND” themselves. I am not quite that stupid to go looking elsewhere for me. For better or for worse, I am right here. I wouldn’t know where to look if I did try. I went through a stage in life where I was this giggling little thing that laughed at the drop of the hat- hence the giggling trucker’s wife. It seemed to fit then. Life was funny, then. I have withdrawn within myself, and as a result I have become more serious and reflective. I hate to think I have mental-pause/menopause to blame, but really fu¢k it, what else can be wrong with me?? Perhaps it is a massive hormonal imbalance that would be rectified with several small bottles filled with pills.
Perhaps it is simply that moment in time that dawns when I stand up and make a huge pot of vegetable soup for me despite the fact my daughter tolerates it and everyone else in the house despises it. That moment when I proclaim with a wicked grin “If you don’t like it, go ahead and starve!!!” while I eat my fill knowing full well my son and husband will no doubt refuse to eat a bite. Ah well, I will work through it, rest assured about that. As I do, you will be treated to these bursts of instability that resemble that lady in“Fried Green Tomatoes”who took great pleasure in ramming her car repeatedly in those little snot nose bit¢hes car that had the balls to steal her parking spot. Towanda!!! Ahh midlife, when breasts and testicles noticeably begin to sag and unless you got thousands of dollars to lift and tuck you live with it until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
What is the last straw and when does it occur? Is it the moment right before you lose your mind or is it the time that precedes going off the deep end when you are painstakingly going through each straw coming dangerously close to the last one? You know, when your kids are bouncing on your last nerve and you are 1/16 of an inch of wringing their precious little necks. It is the moment when you begin to count at the top of your lungs and the time bomb in your head is ticking…loudly.
Sometimes the last straw comes at that precise moment when everything that can go wrong does go wrong and only praying to G0d above can save you. Usually in his divine wisdom, He chooses to save your butt because if you have ever noticed somehow, someway life goes on regardless. There is always a life lesson attached because it wouldn’t be life if we didn’t live and learn and gain a little wisdom from each trip into the pits of our own personal hell.
Like most people I have seen my last straw. I have been there and done that and have no doubt before I go toe up I will get to that last straw again probably many times over. I will blow a blood vessel, hyperventilate, ultimately calm down, find the way, and life will continue with a new box of straws. Even the most even tempered folks ultimately have to go through a lot of straws. Then you have the more explosive sort who probably knocks off a box of straws a day. Thank heavens for the mellowing effects of aging. If it weren’t for the beauty of aging and the natural progression of learning not to sweat the small stuff, many of us, me included, would have blown our entire life’s supply of straws in our youth. I blew so many straws when I was younger that I have noticed myself using up fewer and fewer as I age. I pick the battles I can win now, and don’t blow my straws on lost causes.
Even though my fuse has lengthened over the years, I have seen a whole box of straws blown in one instance that can be chalked up to the pre-menopause hormones that bring on Towanda moments worthy of scenes from the classic movie “Fried Green Tomatoes” or that classic moment in “The Father of the Bride” when Steve Martin’s character decides he is no longer getting screwed over by the conspiracy between the hot dog and bun companies forcing people to buy more buns than they need. Yes, given the opportunity I am capable of losing it on the gargantuan proportions that can rival both notorious scenes.
Providence knows, with two relatively young children who have yet to reach the dreaded teenage years, I probably haven’t even begun to touch on the stock pile of straws I will go through during that stage of life. I have heard horror stories, and for now I am completely content to deal with the small stuff using up my stock pile of straws slowly, deliberately and with precision until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
It’s Monday. It’s Martin Luther King Day. Wow. I haven’t written anything since November 11, 2015. That is a long time. Do I even still remember how to write? We will see, won’t we? Where have I been? Sick. I have been sick with pneumonia all this time. My husband had pneumonia which led to him being unable to work for two weeks. The only blessing was that the kids never got sick once. He got better. I didn’t. Go figure. I mean, I have no trains to catch, no job outside the home, so who truly gives a rat’s ass if I ever get well? It has been a long, depressing road. We survived the holidays. The internet was off at our house all this time. I had the internet on my phone, but nowhere else. Honestly, I didn’t feel well enough to waddle from my bed to the bathroom, let alone write. I kept a low profile and flew under the radar battling depression, my own demons, and making a minute by minute attempt to literally cough up my vagina and every bodily fluid I could possibly possess. Have you ever coughed so hard that you literally peed your pants? Or worse? I have been there and done that and, this time, didn’t even have the joyous excuse of being pregnant.
So here I am! For those of you that wondered if I died, you didn’t get that lucky. I am still struggling along somehow with my messed up humor and special brand of sarcasm very much intact. With that said I’ll be giving this writing thing another go. I am older, struggling with mental-pause hormones. The up- side is that my doctor finally figured out that perhaps I needed a bit of medicinal help with that situation when I shared that I normally step out on my back stoop in subzero temps in my underwear, barefoot…in the snow, because I am sweating my ass off. Behavior like that doesn’t really help the whole attempt to get over pneumonia. 
