Let's talk about how fucked up my sleep cycle is. I have horrible insomnia. And before you go telling I need Melatonin, Ambien, Lunesta, warm milk, chamomile tea....I've already tried it. All of it. Every single thing probably ever invented in the whole wide world for insomnia -- I've tried it. In fact, I took some Melatonin about three hours ago. I'm wide awake, obviously.
I'm allergic to Ambien. Not the 'Oh I'm still awake so I'm having hallucinations' type of fake allergic that Adderall fueled sorority girls talk about over their Starbucks frappes and skinny jeans. Hahah....I WISH A BITCH WOULD HALLUCINATE. Instead, I get these disgusting hives all over my body. Everywhere. And I faint. I straight up pass the fuck out. It was super fun finding this out, too.
I was in the hospital for your everyday, routine mental health checkup. (Doth thou detect sarcasm?) I couldn't sleep. At the time, Ambien was still relatively new, so the doctor prescribed it -- along with what seemed like a thousand other things -- and, duh, I took it. I didn't sleep. I didn't hallucinate. I stayed up all night watching VHS copies of The Big Lebowski and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
(They allowed my mom to bring my VHS collection of movies to me....I complained that I couldn't sleep and watching these movies that were so familiar to me might give me some comfort....heh) The next morning I was on probably the most uncomfortable couch type apparatus I've ever been on, watching The Big Lebowski, when the nurse called me to take my morning medication. I had been on that couch all night long, watching movies. She looked at me and immediately sucked her breath in through her teeth and came out from behind the plexiglass window used to issue meds. (Apparently I was in the looney bin with some folks who had been in jail?) She put her arm around me and steered me towards my room carefully. Thankfully I was pretty bitchy so I got the pleasure of a private room. She directed me to the bathroom and instructed me to remove my shirt. Immediately I was alarmed, because why is this fucking stranger trying to look at my tits? So I resisted a little but eventually I stripped my shirt. While I was at it I took off my pants too....what's the point in just being topless? Again, she sucked her breath in through her teeth and then spun me around to face the mirror. I had these awful, giant red blisters all over my body. My forehead to the tips of my toes were covered in red, splotchy patches. They didn't hurt, they didn't itch, but they sure as fuck didn't look very cute. Ambien was the only thing added to my prescription diet, so it was the variable.
So yeah. Very, very allergic to the Ambien. Melatonin and I have a love/hate relationship. Sometimes it really works for me, sometimes it makes me want to vomit, and sometimes it makes me hyper. I have ADHD and I don't take medication for it. When I did, I actually slept quite regularly. I would pass right out the minute the medication wore off and wake up almost exactly 7.5 hours later. I should probably look into taking that stuff again...except it makes me kind of pissy. I don't want to be pissy.
Chamomile tea is for pussies. I said it. Come at me bro. I'll fall asleep after three pots of coffee faster than I will a cup of stupid flower tea.
Lunesta really doesn't work for me. At all. None. The last time I took Lunesta, it was two Christmases ago. I was fighting with Boyfriend and we had broken up, so my heart was shredded -- as was his, because we're still together -- and I couldn't sleep after all the shock of everything. So I took a Lunesta and went to bed with a movie. Sounds like a reasonable request to want to sleep for a little while after a life-altering event like that, right? My body wasn't ready. I took the Lunesta around 8 p.m. At 12 midnight I was still wide awake, crying, staring at my ceiling fan, thinking about everything that had happened, what I did wrong, what could I do to make it better in the future, why my ass had gotten so fat, would it continue to get so fat, what about those plans I had for my life, why doesn't anyone love me, I am a horrible person, horrible mother, horrible sister, horrible daughter, I need a cat, I miss my dog...the usual cycle I go through at night. I decided I would take some Melatonin -- along with my regular meds, including Klonopin -- and take my ass to sleep. Three hours later I was STILL wide awake, contemplating all my horrible life decisions. So I packed a bag or two, wrote a note for my mom, wrote a letter for my Peanut, and hopped in my car and drove to my family in Nashville.
I drove five hours to Nashville after consuming Lunesta, Melatonin, AND Klonopin. Sleep meds DO NOT FUCKING WORK on me.
You know what does? Snoring. Specifically, Boyfriend's snoring. Something about his snoring puts me right to sleep. Sometimes he doesn't even need to be snoring, he just needs to be in the general proximity and I am immediately calmer. It's so strange, I've never experienced anything like it before. Nobody has ever been able to make me feel calm just by knowing they are near me. Not my Mom, not my ex-husband (BWAHHAHA -- nobody ever felt calm around that mother fucker, trust.)...nobody. And we don't live together. We haven't gotten to that part yet. So the night's he is with me, I sleep so well. And the nights he isn't...well, I don't. It's not his fault, so don't go reading this thinking I'm blaming someone else for my problem that I've had since I was twelve. Nope. I just think it's kind of nice that there is a person out there in the world that can make me feel calm enough to just fall asleep. And I think I do that to him too, because we sure do sleep a lot. Since my work schedule is kind of insane and sometimes I work at midnight and and sometimes I work at 8 a.m. I have the most fucked up sleep schedule ever. I will get the best sleep ever from about 5 - 9 p.m., stay up until 3 a.m., wake up at 6 a.m., and GO GO GO GO GO from 6 am to 5 pm when I pass out again. Or should I say when I WANT to pass out again. More often than not I am working during these hours, or doing homework with my Peanut, cooking, grocery shopping, etc, and can't sleep....which sucks balls. I think my Circadian rhythm is mad at me.
Now....if you have any tips or tricks that don't involve meditation -- I am FAR TOO ADHD FOR THAT -- or any of the aforementioned remedies, I would LOVE to hear them. I am always open for ideas.
Sweet dreams, ya'll.
K
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Sometimes You Know, Sometimes You Don't
Sometimes you don't know where to start. Other times you don't know when to stop. Sometimes you're forced to stop doing something you love in order to save yourself.
I have been to school at JSU, Auburn, and a host of community colleges in between. Got a few degrees under my belt....fat load of good it's doing me. All I ever seriously wanted was to do hair. Well, do hair, be a lawyer, a doctor, a bartender....I'm wandering off here. Shit. Sorry. I have ADHD that is completely unmedicated.
I've wanted to be a cosmetologist since I was sixteen years old. That's all. I found a serious passion and I just knew it was for me. I let my parents, my ex husband, my friends, all of the people in my life EXCEPT ME tell me what to do. And it certainly wasn't 'Hey, girl, go do hair! You go be Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias and WERK HUNTY'. No. They did NOT say that. They said it wasn't a real career. I needed to study business. I needed to study politics. 'You're so good at arguing, you'd make a perfect defense attorney...' 'You need to study marketing. Look at me, I make a hapgiliionn dollars a year and my life is a mess but outwardly I'm HAPPYYYYYYY [but I'm dying inside from all the cheeseburgers and nights alone] and it's a great life!'
They all told me no. And I listened. Until one day I didn't anymore. I was divorced a little over a year and had come to the realization that studying for my master's degree wasn't gonna cut it for me. I was really sick of academia. I wanted to study what the fuck I wanted. Dammit. So I did. I had ONE place in mind. The IVY LEAGUE OF BEAUTY SCHOOLS -- Aveda. One day I woke up, drove my ass up to Birmingham, and applied. I begged the application money from my folks (I think) and I got in. My friends helped me make a kick ass dress out of smashed beer bottle caps and I won a scholarship. I was PUMPED.
My journey began. God I was so happy. I had to be in Birmingham three and four days a week, 18 hour days -- counting my trip -- and I was deliriously happy. I missed my kid. I missed my boyfriend. But I was doing really fucking well and I was loving what I was doing and feeling challenged and good.
Then I crashed. Figuratively. The TN started to seriously flare up from the stress, and from all the chemicals and improper ventilation. I lost my place to stay in town so I was commuting over 60 miles one way. I nearly missed my daughter's entire soccer season, and I had no time in the summer with her. I was losing myself to this horrible disease and to Aveda. And I backslid. I had to stay home. And as a student with special needs, they had to accommodate me, right? But they didn't. They tried to keep me at a remedial level until I gave up. That was the option I was given. To give up. And I did. I had to. I could no longer afford the price of my dream of graduation from Aveda. It wasn't worth any more missed soccer games or bedtime stories or any of that. It wasn't worth my sanity. I was in so much pain, physically and emotionally, that I had to let go.
And I did. I'm still getting over it. I let my entire life, my entire sense of worth and well-being, ride on a variable of a place, of a dream, that existed wherever I made it exist. It wasn't contained in the walls of Aveda. I just figured that out today. I still cry. I still haven't been able to go back to visit friends or get that free blow-out that I don't need but want anyway because I know it will feel good. It makes me sad to think about even walking back through those doors because I feel like I failed. I feel like I failed my daughter, my family, my boyfriend, my friends, and myself. Mostly myself. I have impulse control issues, and I think Aveda may have been one of those impulses to change my life that I could have stepped back from a little bit. But it was soooo easy....so....right there...I wanted to rocket myself into the life I wanted, the life I've been chasing. I knew I was smart enough, I knew I was talented enough. I didn't realize how much it would cost emotionally. I slept my first week off. Just slept.
I still cry. I still cry over knowing I will never graduate with my class on June 13.
I've found my calling a little closer to home. While it's not Aveda, it's still damn good. And I'm damn good, and I'm going to be damn good at it.
Sometimes I think it's okay to give up if it means you gain something better in the end.
I have been to school at JSU, Auburn, and a host of community colleges in between. Got a few degrees under my belt....fat load of good it's doing me. All I ever seriously wanted was to do hair. Well, do hair, be a lawyer, a doctor, a bartender....I'm wandering off here. Shit. Sorry. I have ADHD that is completely unmedicated.
I've wanted to be a cosmetologist since I was sixteen years old. That's all. I found a serious passion and I just knew it was for me. I let my parents, my ex husband, my friends, all of the people in my life EXCEPT ME tell me what to do. And it certainly wasn't 'Hey, girl, go do hair! You go be Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias and WERK HUNTY'. No. They did NOT say that. They said it wasn't a real career. I needed to study business. I needed to study politics. 'You're so good at arguing, you'd make a perfect defense attorney...' 'You need to study marketing. Look at me, I make a hapgiliionn dollars a year and my life is a mess but outwardly I'm HAPPYYYYYYY [but I'm dying inside from all the cheeseburgers and nights alone] and it's a great life!'
They all told me no. And I listened. Until one day I didn't anymore. I was divorced a little over a year and had come to the realization that studying for my master's degree wasn't gonna cut it for me. I was really sick of academia. I wanted to study what the fuck I wanted. Dammit. So I did. I had ONE place in mind. The IVY LEAGUE OF BEAUTY SCHOOLS -- Aveda. One day I woke up, drove my ass up to Birmingham, and applied. I begged the application money from my folks (I think) and I got in. My friends helped me make a kick ass dress out of smashed beer bottle caps and I won a scholarship. I was PUMPED.
My journey began. God I was so happy. I had to be in Birmingham three and four days a week, 18 hour days -- counting my trip -- and I was deliriously happy. I missed my kid. I missed my boyfriend. But I was doing really fucking well and I was loving what I was doing and feeling challenged and good.
Then I crashed. Figuratively. The TN started to seriously flare up from the stress, and from all the chemicals and improper ventilation. I lost my place to stay in town so I was commuting over 60 miles one way. I nearly missed my daughter's entire soccer season, and I had no time in the summer with her. I was losing myself to this horrible disease and to Aveda. And I backslid. I had to stay home. And as a student with special needs, they had to accommodate me, right? But they didn't. They tried to keep me at a remedial level until I gave up. That was the option I was given. To give up. And I did. I had to. I could no longer afford the price of my dream of graduation from Aveda. It wasn't worth any more missed soccer games or bedtime stories or any of that. It wasn't worth my sanity. I was in so much pain, physically and emotionally, that I had to let go.
And I did. I'm still getting over it. I let my entire life, my entire sense of worth and well-being, ride on a variable of a place, of a dream, that existed wherever I made it exist. It wasn't contained in the walls of Aveda. I just figured that out today. I still cry. I still haven't been able to go back to visit friends or get that free blow-out that I don't need but want anyway because I know it will feel good. It makes me sad to think about even walking back through those doors because I feel like I failed. I feel like I failed my daughter, my family, my boyfriend, my friends, and myself. Mostly myself. I have impulse control issues, and I think Aveda may have been one of those impulses to change my life that I could have stepped back from a little bit. But it was soooo easy....so....right there...I wanted to rocket myself into the life I wanted, the life I've been chasing. I knew I was smart enough, I knew I was talented enough. I didn't realize how much it would cost emotionally. I slept my first week off. Just slept.
I still cry. I still cry over knowing I will never graduate with my class on June 13.
I've found my calling a little closer to home. While it's not Aveda, it's still damn good. And I'm damn good, and I'm going to be damn good at it.
Sometimes I think it's okay to give up if it means you gain something better in the end.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
The Price of Admission
I have medical issues. Kind of a lot. They keep me home a good bit. I feel cooped up most of the time. I think that's essentially why I started this project. I don't reach out to many people, and the few I do reach out to are awesome, amazing people who help in any way they can. Unfortunately, there isn't much anyone without a prescription pad, pen, or a long career in neurosurgery can do.
I have Trigeminal Neuralgia. I've mentioned it a couple times, I'm sure. It's nicknamed the suicide disease because people kill themselves from lack of relief. It has been said that it's the worst pain known to humans. I don't know if that's true but it does fucking hurt.
As I write this and my face is KILLING me, I just hear rain start to fall. Thank God. Much like arthritis, my face hurts worse when it's about to rain. It's like...being electrocuted in one side of your face, and that side of your face happens to contain eight teeth that are in serious need of a root canal. Add in a healthy dose of burning in your gums, twitching eyes, and topical facial numbness for good measure. That's the best I can describe it. It fucking hurts. Always. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. As I get older it's becoming less manageable. I don't qualify for insurance OR medicaid so I've filed for disability. If that's how I can get treated and get better, fuck it. That's what it's for.
I also suffer from PTSD. My ex husband beat the shit out of me. It is what it is.
I have severe panic attacks, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Bipolar disorder. I take Zoloft. I recently started taking it again after about a four year break. I'm glad I did. I feel like I was able to realize when I started to kind of spiral out of my normal "crazy" and fall into real "crazy" and catch myself in time. Thankfully I hoard medication so I had plenty of Zoloft lying around. If I had to wait for my doctor to prescribe it again it would have been at least a month before I could get access to any. I might not have made it that long. I was at the point where I felt useless. That might not sound like much, but it's a big fucking deal to me. I'm still struggling, but every day is getting a little easier. I wake up happy and looking forward to waking up like 40% of the time, which is great. I was at about 10%. So that's improvement.
I miss little things about being able to do life. Like being a waitress or bartender. I love that job. It might sound stupid, and that's ok. I was really good at it and I loved doing it. I had to call in sick so much from the pain from the TN that it made me basically unemployable. I get it. It sucks. I had to start working for myself. Making my own hours, etc. It works better for me, but it's still hard.
I'm lucky. I have family, and although we don't really get along, they help me when I cannot help myself. My Peanut is amazing and makes me eggs when my face hurts and I can't really chew. Boyfriend sometimes brings me soup and will sit with me and hold my hand when I can't take it. I have these amazing friends that understand when I cancel plans at the last minute....I'm not being flaky. I'm just in pain.
I've never been shy about the TN, or the panic attacks. But I've told very few people about the depression. But it's very real, and if you are suffering, think you might be suffering, or know someone who is, fucking reach out. Please. Just do that for me. Fuck...I'll talk to you man. May be just some internet talk but that's fine. Reach out. It's gonna be okay.
I have Trigeminal Neuralgia. I've mentioned it a couple times, I'm sure. It's nicknamed the suicide disease because people kill themselves from lack of relief. It has been said that it's the worst pain known to humans. I don't know if that's true but it does fucking hurt.
As I write this and my face is KILLING me, I just hear rain start to fall. Thank God. Much like arthritis, my face hurts worse when it's about to rain. It's like...being electrocuted in one side of your face, and that side of your face happens to contain eight teeth that are in serious need of a root canal. Add in a healthy dose of burning in your gums, twitching eyes, and topical facial numbness for good measure. That's the best I can describe it. It fucking hurts. Always. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. As I get older it's becoming less manageable. I don't qualify for insurance OR medicaid so I've filed for disability. If that's how I can get treated and get better, fuck it. That's what it's for.
I also suffer from PTSD. My ex husband beat the shit out of me. It is what it is.
I have severe panic attacks, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Bipolar disorder. I take Zoloft. I recently started taking it again after about a four year break. I'm glad I did. I feel like I was able to realize when I started to kind of spiral out of my normal "crazy" and fall into real "crazy" and catch myself in time. Thankfully I hoard medication so I had plenty of Zoloft lying around. If I had to wait for my doctor to prescribe it again it would have been at least a month before I could get access to any. I might not have made it that long. I was at the point where I felt useless. That might not sound like much, but it's a big fucking deal to me. I'm still struggling, but every day is getting a little easier. I wake up happy and looking forward to waking up like 40% of the time, which is great. I was at about 10%. So that's improvement.
I miss little things about being able to do life. Like being a waitress or bartender. I love that job. It might sound stupid, and that's ok. I was really good at it and I loved doing it. I had to call in sick so much from the pain from the TN that it made me basically unemployable. I get it. It sucks. I had to start working for myself. Making my own hours, etc. It works better for me, but it's still hard.
I'm lucky. I have family, and although we don't really get along, they help me when I cannot help myself. My Peanut is amazing and makes me eggs when my face hurts and I can't really chew. Boyfriend sometimes brings me soup and will sit with me and hold my hand when I can't take it. I have these amazing friends that understand when I cancel plans at the last minute....I'm not being flaky. I'm just in pain.
I've never been shy about the TN, or the panic attacks. But I've told very few people about the depression. But it's very real, and if you are suffering, think you might be suffering, or know someone who is, fucking reach out. Please. Just do that for me. Fuck...I'll talk to you man. May be just some internet talk but that's fine. Reach out. It's gonna be okay.
Comfort Food
This is my 'I just had a fucked up nightmare and will only sleep and hour plus I'm starting a ketogenic diet tomorrow' comfort food. A fat ass Philly Cheesesteak. Yassss.
Also Suki wants to stab me and steal my food.
Sweet dreams Princesses.
I'm So Happy I Peed Before I Left The House
Always pee before you leave the house. Seriously. Trust me on this. All those years of your mom or dad or your weird cousin that sometimes took care of you telling you "Pee before you get in the car!" -- they were right. Listen to me -- pee before you leave. You never know what will happen.
Let me set the scene a little. It's Friday night. It's my birthday. I didn't make a big deal out of it, not this year. Last year, fuck yeah I did. But not this year. I was happy about it too. Boyfriend tells me a couple days before my birthday that two of Our Good Friends wanted to take us to dinner for my birthday. It's a couple we both know, and I've known both of them kind of forever anyway, so I was really excited. It's nice to have another sane* couple to hang with.
(*sane -- not involved in domestic violence, drama, or any outward freak nasty-ness...at least the un-fun kind...)
I decide okay....so we're having dinner. But I kind of want to see my people. I feel like a gathering is in order, and we always hit the local watering hole, so maybe a house party. I asked Boyfriend to ask another one of Our Good Friends -- who happens to be a computer fucking genius, and should you need any help with yours, just ask. I'll hook you up with his number. He's legit. -- to let us host a party at his place. Boyfriend comes back with a YES so I do the logical thing and make a fucking Facebook event. It's just easier. I invited 100+ people because....I did. Whatever. Nobody ever shows up anyway. Not ALL the people. So awesome. Plans are set, I'm feeling good. I hydrated. I rested. I even got some birthday money from my mom. $31. Sweet! (but sweet like pickles, not like cupcakes)
Boyfriend starts feeling a little under the weather. Has a cold. I immediately jump into ACTIVATE SPECIAL NEEDS NURSE MODE and grab all the fixin's for Hot Toddy's, cough drops, cold meds, the works. Even got him some of his favorite ice cream (which he didn't even eat. I'm lactose intolerant. Hellooooo) We spend Thursday and most of Friday in bed, marathoning Entourage. Yes. You read that shit right. I love Jeremy Piven.
Friday evening rolls around. Boyfriend says he feels well enough to go to dinner and the party afterwards. To be completely honest, I kind of felt like crap Thursday and Friday myself, Trigeminal Neuralgia garbage, so I was being pretty self-indulgent AND playing nurse at the same time. Multitasking, bitches. It's a Mom thing. I think. I get dressed. But I'm confused. Boyfriend says, "The reservations are at 8..."
There isn't a damn place in my town that A). takes reservations AND B). isn't fancy. So I'm worried now. I don't want to look fancy. I was doing really good to have pants on. He assured me it wasn't fancy. I MADE him assure me it wasn't fancy. I was legitimately concerned. So I'm dressed. He's dressed. And we're waiting. Says one of Our Good Friends is running a little behind. I think nothing of it because Good Friend works a lot out of town, and I don't know the guy's schedule. Shit, they were buying dinner. I damn sure couldn't complain. But I was concerned about this fucking reservation. What if we lost our table? Where were we going? What the fuck?
And then I thought about it. I said FUCK IT. It's my birthday. I reserve the right to not give a fuck.
We head over to Our Good Friend's house. I always get lost going there. Always. Always. Always. We get out and go in. Our Good Friend answers the door, says her man is just finishing up getting ready.
AND THEN THE HOUSE EXPLODES WITH PEOPLE AND NOISES AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY'S AND HUGS AND LOVE AND KISSES AND JOY.
Boyfriend set me up with a surprise party. I've never had one before. I never suspected a damn thing. I had no fucking clue. At all. And what do I say? What is THE FIRST THING that comes out of my mouth?
"I AM SO GLAD I PEED BEFORE I LEFT. YA'LL SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!"
Birthday was GREAT. And Boyfriend got all the nursing this weekend. Poor guy doesn't feel well right now so I pumped him full of echinacea and antibiotics and Philly cheesesteaks and Tylenol and Advil. Bless that man. He helped me see something I had been missing for awhile : There are people in my life that actually give a shit about me. Depression is difficult and I recently began taking antidepressants again. And I've been struggling with it. Really struggling. And not telling anyone. Not even him. Not even myself, really. But he showed me that I was wrong. My brain is just fritzing because Bipolar. I have the best people around me. And I am goddamn grateful.
I celebrate birthdays for a month. So the next time I feel like getting out and showing out, ya'll better look out. -_-
Thursday, February 5, 2015
On The Edge of 31
A couple more hours and I'll be 31.
I don't even care. It really is just a number. I would NOT like to be 21 again. I would NOT like to be any younger than I am now. I feel like I am myself.
My kid brought me home a birthday cake tonight. She was so excited! And she got me a precious card. Boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed and I haven't gotten out of bed really all day. It's been wonderful. I hope everyone gets to feel this fucking lucky, this loved, this.....cared for, at least once in their lives. Even though both of my loves are snoring their asses off and I'm here writing you fools, I'm just sharing. I feel like I may burst, and not from gas. I am happy. I don't know that I've ever been really happy before.
Are there things I wish were different? Abso-fucking-lutely. I wish I had all the money so that Boyfriend and Peanut and Suki and Boba could all live together. I wish for lots of other things too but that's basically at the top of my list.
But I'm still happy. Even with all the fucked up stuff in my life, even with all the panic attacks and Trigeminal Neuralgia and seemingly endless health issues and financial issues, stress, insomnia....
Happy. Cue the fucking Pharrell song.
I don't even care. It really is just a number. I would NOT like to be 21 again. I would NOT like to be any younger than I am now. I feel like I am myself.
My kid brought me home a birthday cake tonight. She was so excited! And she got me a precious card. Boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed and I haven't gotten out of bed really all day. It's been wonderful. I hope everyone gets to feel this fucking lucky, this loved, this.....cared for, at least once in their lives. Even though both of my loves are snoring their asses off and I'm here writing you fools, I'm just sharing. I feel like I may burst, and not from gas. I am happy. I don't know that I've ever been really happy before.
Are there things I wish were different? Abso-fucking-lutely. I wish I had all the money so that Boyfriend and Peanut and Suki and Boba could all live together. I wish for lots of other things too but that's basically at the top of my list.
But I'm still happy. Even with all the fucked up stuff in my life, even with all the panic attacks and Trigeminal Neuralgia and seemingly endless health issues and financial issues, stress, insomnia....
Happy. Cue the fucking Pharrell song.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
The Red Wedding
I was 23 years old when I got married. I had a nearly 2 year old baby (toddler, what-the-fuck-ever) and literally no life experience at all. I was terrified of being a single mom and ready to "settle down" (whatever that means). I wanted to get married and start this thing all of my family talked about, called A LIFE. I wanted A LIFE. I wanted A FAMILY. But mostly what I wanted was to get the fuck out of the small town I grew up in and get AWAY from my insane, baby thieving Mother.
So I met this guy. At a really, REALLY dangerous type redneck ass bar. It was my favorite. I love those type of places. They were nice to me, and the had karaoke...my weakness. So I walk into this bar, which is practically empty. My second time ever in there. And there is this guy. In my fucking chair at the end of the bar, next to where the bartenders hang. That was MY spot. So I walked right over and sat down. Ordered a Patron margarita. I sit there for a few minutes...quiet. He finally turns his head and looks at me. Says, "Why are you here, drinking alone?" and I told him, "I just got dumped for the first time." which was a total lie. Sort of. I had gotten dumped that day but it wasn't the first time. Just the first time as an adult. Which makes it technically my first time anyway.
He turns to me and said, "My wife just killed herself. I win."
What I SHOULD have done is RUN THE FUCK AWAY RIGHT THEN. But nooooooo, everybody has bad shit happen to them, right? Your wife committing suicide isn't a RED FUCKING FLAG is it?
Fast forward to a few months later and we've moved in together, and are engaged. Yep. Fast forward to three months later and we have arrived at the Red Wedding.
This shit was a sight for redneck eyes. Let me give you a little backstory on me.
I worked for a florist for five years. I arranged weddings, make floral arrangements, planned weddings, etc. And for my OWN wedding I didn't give two shits to do any of that. I just didn't care about it.
I bought a dress for $20 from David's Bridal. A red dress. That I didn't even try on. I wasn't allowed to look at the actual wedding dresses, which was pretty okay with me seeing as we were getting married at his mother's house. Which was falling down. Literally. Falling down. His mom was ill, and couldn't get out of bed for more than about ten minutes. It was basically the only place we could get married and she be able to attend.
She had never been able to attend any of his previous weddings. All FOUR of them. I WAS HIS FIFTH WIFE. I found out when we got divorced. But I digress.
We had his family bring food from the local grocery store bakery. Our cake said "Happy B/Wedding" in pink icing with glitter and stuff. Whatever. His family came. Some of mine came. We put up a twenty year old dusty blue curtain to serve as our "backdrop" and a preacher that was almost as old as God himself, Zenus, married us. He never even cracked the Bible. Afterwards he told me, "Only whores wear red dresses in a wedding..." and I looked at him and said, "Mr. Zenus, I think it's pretty clear I am not a virgin. My daughter is right over there..." and pointed to my sweet little Peanut. He scowled at me. I guess I wasn't good enough for his backwoods ass version of Christianity. Whatever.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We were in and out of the "wedding" in about an hour. I later sold my Red Whore Wedding Dress at a yard sale for fifty bucks. So I made a profit. Woot.
We were married for about five years I think. The divorce was quick, but he still stalks me. It's annoying.
It's been over two years since the divorce. And I've been dating this great guy. I don't know if I'll ever get married again. I believe that you don't "have" to get married, that a long-term commitment can be achieved without the fluffy ass dress or expensive cake. But Boyfriend makes me think that maybe he might want that. He's never been married before. Maybe he does want that. I don't know. We don't talk about it too much...probably because all I've ever said publicly is that I don't want to get married again. But I know that if he asked I would say yes.
So I met this guy. At a really, REALLY dangerous type redneck ass bar. It was my favorite. I love those type of places. They were nice to me, and the had karaoke...my weakness. So I walk into this bar, which is practically empty. My second time ever in there. And there is this guy. In my fucking chair at the end of the bar, next to where the bartenders hang. That was MY spot. So I walked right over and sat down. Ordered a Patron margarita. I sit there for a few minutes...quiet. He finally turns his head and looks at me. Says, "Why are you here, drinking alone?" and I told him, "I just got dumped for the first time." which was a total lie. Sort of. I had gotten dumped that day but it wasn't the first time. Just the first time as an adult. Which makes it technically my first time anyway.
He turns to me and said, "My wife just killed herself. I win."
What I SHOULD have done is RUN THE FUCK AWAY RIGHT THEN. But nooooooo, everybody has bad shit happen to them, right? Your wife committing suicide isn't a RED FUCKING FLAG is it?
Fast forward to a few months later and we've moved in together, and are engaged. Yep. Fast forward to three months later and we have arrived at the Red Wedding.
This shit was a sight for redneck eyes. Let me give you a little backstory on me.
I worked for a florist for five years. I arranged weddings, make floral arrangements, planned weddings, etc. And for my OWN wedding I didn't give two shits to do any of that. I just didn't care about it.
I bought a dress for $20 from David's Bridal. A red dress. That I didn't even try on. I wasn't allowed to look at the actual wedding dresses, which was pretty okay with me seeing as we were getting married at his mother's house. Which was falling down. Literally. Falling down. His mom was ill, and couldn't get out of bed for more than about ten minutes. It was basically the only place we could get married and she be able to attend.
She had never been able to attend any of his previous weddings. All FOUR of them. I WAS HIS FIFTH WIFE. I found out when we got divorced. But I digress.
We had his family bring food from the local grocery store bakery. Our cake said "Happy B/Wedding" in pink icing with glitter and stuff. Whatever. His family came. Some of mine came. We put up a twenty year old dusty blue curtain to serve as our "backdrop" and a preacher that was almost as old as God himself, Zenus, married us. He never even cracked the Bible. Afterwards he told me, "Only whores wear red dresses in a wedding..." and I looked at him and said, "Mr. Zenus, I think it's pretty clear I am not a virgin. My daughter is right over there..." and pointed to my sweet little Peanut. He scowled at me. I guess I wasn't good enough for his backwoods ass version of Christianity. Whatever.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We were in and out of the "wedding" in about an hour. I later sold my Red Whore Wedding Dress at a yard sale for fifty bucks. So I made a profit. Woot.
We were married for about five years I think. The divorce was quick, but he still stalks me. It's annoying.
It's been over two years since the divorce. And I've been dating this great guy. I don't know if I'll ever get married again. I believe that you don't "have" to get married, that a long-term commitment can be achieved without the fluffy ass dress or expensive cake. But Boyfriend makes me think that maybe he might want that. He's never been married before. Maybe he does want that. I don't know. We don't talk about it too much...probably because all I've ever said publicly is that I don't want to get married again. But I know that if he asked I would say yes.
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