She Had Every Right To Bitch

I've been fat and I've been anorexic. I'll take anorexic any day of the week. It's been so bad since I've gained weight that I've considered committing suicide over the weight.  I'm over 40--weight doesn't just fall off. A month on the thyroid medication hasn't helped yet. I kept up walking about 10 miles in total with Guy on Friday, but by Saturday, I could barely walk, I was so worn out. My random knee pain, which is excruciating, has returned.  The whole situation just feels like it's never going to get better. My family is not supportive or encouraging. 

I've been trying to find the right dress for Luke's graduation banquet and graduation, and it's been failure after failure. Shopping online doesn't help, but I have a decent grasp of my size, and I'm fooling myself. That's the caveat of shopping online--you don't get to try things on and have to end up returning them. 

What's most disheartening is the fact that I asked my son to watch this clip (transcript below) to get a better understanding about how heavier women feel out in the dating world. What'd he say? "Yeah, I watched it. It's stupid. It's just some fat chick complaining about how she's fat."

And we're not supposed to do that. And we're supposed to thank the heavens for every crumb of attention any man chooses to pay us. It's all out of sympathy, anyway. No matter how we try to dress flatteringly, it ultimately doesn't matter. In the episode, Louis CK turns down the fat girl for a date she's asked him for more than once.

Transcript of "Louis" courtesy of Jezebel:

Vanessa: Ugh, dammit. That is so goddamn disappointing, Louie.

Louie, you know what the meanest thing is you can say to a fat girl? "You're not fat." I mean, come on, buddy. It just sucks. It really really sucks. You have no idea. And the worst part is, I'm not even supposed to do this. Tell anyone how bad it sucks, because it's too much for people. I mean, you, you can talk into the microphone and say you can't get a date, you're overweight. It's adorable. But if I say it, they call the suicide hotline on me.

I mean, can I just say it? I'm fat. It sucks to be a fat girl. Can people just let me say it? It sucks. It really sucks. And I'm going to go ahead and say it. It's your fault.

Look, I really like you, you're truly a good guy, I think. I'm so sorry. I'm picking you. On behalf of all the fat girls, I'm making you represent all the guys. Why do you hate us so much? What is is about the basics of human happiness, feeling attractive, feeling loved, having guys chase after us, that's just not in the cards for us? Nope. Not for us.

How is that fair? And why am I supposed to just accept it?

Louie: You know, Vanessa, you're a very, really beautiful—

Vanessa: If I was a very, really beautiful, then you would have said yes when I asked you out. I mean, come on, Louie, be honest here. You know what's funny? I flirt with guys all the time. And I mean the great looking ones, the really high-caliber studs? They flirt right back, no problem. Because they know their status will never be questioned. But guys like you never flirt with me, because you get scared that maybe you should be with a girl like me.

And why not? You know, if you were standing over there looking at us, you know what you'd see? That we totally match. We're actually a great couple together. And yet, you would never date a girl like me. Have you ever dated a girl that was heavier than you? Have you?

Louie: Yes I have, yes I have.

Vanessa: No no no, I didn't say have you ever fucked a fat girl, Louie. I'm sure you have. Every guy has. I mean, when I met you, if I had said, "Hey, do you want to go to the bathroom and screw on a big can of peaches?" you would have gone for it. No, I'm saying, have you ever dated a fat girl. Have you ever kissed a fat girl? Have you ever wooed a fat girl? Have you ever held hands with a fat girl? Have you ever walked down the street in the light of day, holding hands, with a big girl like me?

Go ahead. Hold my hand. What do you think is going to happen? You think your dick is going to fall off if you hold hands with a fat girl? You know what the sad thing is? It's all I want. I mean, I can get laid. Any woman who is willing can get laid. I don't want that. I don't even need a boyfriend or a husband. All I want is to hold hands with a nice guy, and walk and talk —

Spoiler alert: He holds her hand at the end.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, He walks into mine

Let's say I could call you mine.....in an alternate universe.

Your life would be drastically different.

Yes, we might live in the city. Maybe not as swanky as what you're used to, but I'd make you a home. I'd be pleased to make you a home wherever you desired.

Your belly would never be empty at 9:00 pm when you got home from work. You'd never have to stop for a sandwich. I would understand the long hours and the missed connections, and would appreciate the days like yesterday, which had to take some major planning. I'd have something waiting for you, because you work really hard.

I'd rub the tension out of your neck. I'd reenact all of the bland, benign fantasies I've had about you for 5 years but peel you off the ceiling if given the opportunity. I'd treasure the flecks of gray in your thick, dark hair. I'd grasp it with passion. I would kiss you constantly, annoyingly so, probably. I would tout you to all of my friends as the sexiest guy pushing 60 that I've ever laid eyes on. Your ready grin and hearty laugh make me want to be around you more. I get butterflies when we're going to see each other, but you put me at complete ease once you're standing beside me.

Understandably, your ego is your ego at work. I'm used to that. You don't take it home or out with your friends. Your humility and regular Guyness is very attractive. That's cool. We would laugh at the same crap because we find the same crap funny. Even when I get annoyed with you when I don't get your jokes, you don't get mad. You explain. I appreciate that. We'd talk about things that interest us, not just the daily ins/outs of mundane life. Your brain would almost explode being exposed to me for any great length of time, but you'd wonder how you lived life without it for so long. You'd ride my mania with me for however long it lasted and wouldn't judge me when I'm depressive, knowing that too would pass. I wouldn't feel judged for either mood, actually.  You have never and never would belittle me for what's wrong with me. Being with you is very stabilizing, in fact.  

I wouldn't expect the world and would make my own way in life, because you'd encourage me to do so. I'd anticipate that you'd give your support, as you have, but you'd let me take my bruises as I deserved them. Not coming from a home with any sense of entitlement, I've taken my hits and continue to learn my lessons. Some of that doesn't work out. But you never tell me to give up. You wouldn't do that. Your wisdom is something upon which I rely. 

You'd hold my hand when we cross the street, and then when neither of us wants to let go, until something happens where a free hand is necessary, you might momentarily let go. I'd feel comforted and protected when you do that. You'd hold my jacket. You're a true gentleman. You'd sweetly hold me. You're tender and soft and I feel safe with you.

I'd immortalize you in more art and poetry than I already have. You never have grasped the concept of being one's muse, but you make me want to write beautiful things and make beautiful music, just by being who you are.

I'd try and teach you that it's not the sins of your past or the sins of your present or the sins of your future that define how you get into the heavens. I'd try and teach you that love, in all of its manifestations, precedes and precludes any type of bad thing a human might do, because to be a good person and to give love to someone else is paramount to wallowing in the ills of the past or the foibles of the present. I'd teach you more about your soul and its place than any church could ever teach you, because I know. Don't ask me how I know. I just know. Remember the Ganesha statues? The Elephant god? He's the god of removing obstacles. Perhaps that's why I'm so drawn to him.

I'd respect the relationship you have with your children, as you would mine; understanding that none of the children need a substitute parent. I'd appreciate the non-hovering advice you've given me towards my son which you've pressed me about wisely and kindly and have trusted my judgment as his mother. To me, our age makes no difference. Besides, I'll need you to help me pick out a suitable college for my son in just a couple of years.

Likewise, I'd respect the relationship you have with her. The history is long and complicated, and you did raise 3 children together, but I just don't see you closing out your golden years in such a structured, cloistered, predictable, apathetic existence where you're not given your props for being as wonderful and interesting as you are. Then again, I might be slightly biased, because as if it wasn't already blatantly obvious, I'm in love with you.

I'm sure I've mentioned it blog after blog or at least in person more than once, but meeting and getting to know you was better for me than the 999 piece puzzle I gave you for your birthday. Meeting you and growing close to you was more like the monkey stone I just gave you....weighty, obvious, slightly obtrusive but ultimately calming, soothing and a constant reminder of someone's thought of you. It's smooth, just as our conversations are.

You'll have to forgive this perpetual dreamer, the idealist, the writer who takes bits of reality and turns them into grand fantasies. To me, the time we spend together is paradise. You may think of yourself as ordinary or run of the mill, but in my eyes, you're the bees' knees. More so than any saintly statue or rosary one could carry, no, I don't deify you. You're flawed, and distant, and cantankerous and irritating at times; but ultimately, it's all a part of you and who you are.

When we say "I love you," we mean it. We always have, from the first time you told me that on the phone when you left work one night.

Without putting you on a pedestal, I'll put you on one anyway. I'll also be the first to knock you off it if you think you're getting too big for your britches. I should think you'd do the same for me, as reciprocal as our friendship has been, sided far more on my side than yours, though I understand. I truly do. I can't say I'm 100% happy about it, but I accept it as part of you and your makeup.

I think it was about 3 years ago, we met for a drink after work, Pepsi, and I asked you, "I thrill your soul. What do you plan on doing about that?" Oh, were you flustered. To date, I still haven't gotten a sufficient answer apart from the fact that with every passing encounter, I am more convinced that you mean it when you tell me you love me.

I've never been a big believer in "what's meant to be will be." We are born with conscious choice. We are born with free will. We are born with, conversely, temptation and wily desires that we must weigh against the ultimatum of what's truly our own happiness, our own mess, how messy it might become, to follow what our hearts and minds actually blaze. Courage, braveheart.

Come on, I'd prance (read: stumble) in stilettos for you for at least 5 minutes if you promised to catch me if I started to fall, which, of course, I would.

So many songs remind me of you, and I'd make you more CD's if you'd get your damn player fixed, but for tonight, anyway, and I heard it on Pandora earlier and nearly started to cry, this expresses my sentiment towards you tonight. The lyrics of this song are selfless. George Harrison's "What is Life." While Harrison acknowledges the betterment and treasure of his life with that of his beloved, he resigns a loss or lack of love with support and encouragement. Pandora. It was that or "Instant Karma" by Lennon. Great drum fills, but not exactly appropriate, though "we do all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun." Oh, my darling, not to go off topic, (ME?), but "Karma's" got some of the best drum fills in rock music, bar none. Have a listen.

Apart from my Ambien nap, it's nearly 3am, so I think I'll call it a night. Thanks for a terrific 42nd. It was all I wanted and more. I know it took you a lot of work, which I appreciate. We'll keep an eye on the City Winery.

PS--you missed out on church tonight--not only Steve on drums but Meg on keys--they did a spectacular job....me, I did alright, as I usually do.

Time for bed. When you feel under-appreciated or unloved, realize there's someone out there who adores the living daylights out of you.

XO

"...But if it's not love that you need, then I'll try my best to make everything succeed. Tell me, what is my life without your love? Tell me, who am I without you by my side?"

Here, Guy, consider this a favor:

The Other Side

Happy Dreams: Seeing my dad's face with a literal aura around it, a holy spirit, and I got to just stare at his face for the longest time, looking in awe at his ocean blue eyes. His smile was huge, but not crooked anymore like when he was alive. He looked perfect. Then he said, "I love you, Annie," and said, "I love you too." And he was gone, and I woke up. He literally just stopped by to say hello, but his aura was magnificently bright. I like those little reminders that he's still with me.

He was absolutely perfect, he wasn't jaundiced from alcohol, his smile beamed like he'd had his teeth capped (which I guess, in heaven, is an option), and our gazes met for what felt like hours, though it was probably a matter of a few seconds. But what stood out for me the most was the light around him. It was unlike any other I'd ever seen and not a product of my sedative/hypnotic sleeping pills. He was trying to tell me one of two things: 1) We're ready for you to come home or 2) Please, no matter what, don't give up.

Overall, I had a restless night's sleep. I was up 3 or 4 times and I'm not sure why. Yes, the Dad dream starkly awakened me, but other than that, I don't know why I was up so often. When I did get up again, at 8:30, I'd missed an email by 6 minutes from the chair of the department of my school program. She had some news. The school has decided to administratively withdraw me from the program because I failed to complete an internship last year, and when given a second chance, that all got messed up too. Keep in mind, classes start tomorrow for summer term, and I was ready to go, not thinking there'd be any trouble. I got 2 A's and a B last term, got all of my work in on time, and was pleased and looking forward to continuing towards my masters degree, but...

Essentially, yes. I've been kicked out of school.

There is an opportunity for appeal of this decision, for which I will voraciously fight at all costs.

Or maybe I won't.

Maybe #1 was right and as we all are painfully aware in life, not all of us are meant to grow old. Friday, I'll turn 42, the same age my dad was when he died. It seems so young, but feels so old. It's the answer to the meaning of life, according to science fiction writer, Douglas Adams, you know. 42. I do have plans with Guy for my birthday, after a 5 hour class downtown.  A walk around the Art Institute. Dinner, jazz and time to talk. I'll grant him enough time to see me then, but after that, I honestly can't make any more promises to anyone. Tomorrow night, I'm seeing Meg. She has enough going on not for me to bother her with my foibles. Everybody does, really. Which makes my fights and my decisions solely my own. I've reached out to my Pastor, who maybe can talk some sense into me as to why it's not a supremely superb idea to join that light.

If I lose school, I lose everything. I stand to face tribulation for which I'd prefer to admit myself to a psychiatric ward rather than deal with the wrath which I'd face at home from my living parent. I will have disappointed too many people. For as much as I promised, I vowed I wouldn't fuck things up, I guess I fucked up irreversibly this time.

With the blithe form letter from the school with a "take care" at the end of it, and a blatant lie in one of the reasons why they want to dismiss me, I decided to go over the heads of any committee they might converge and wrote a pleading letter to the president of the school. If their mission statement is to provide and improve social justice for those more unfortunate, those who are in need, and if the president stands by the fact that his door is always open for student concerns, what could it hurt?

Meanwhile, my financial aid will get fucked up again, my stipend on which to live delayed, and I'll go broke. I haven't received any child support from my ex-husband for 2 months. I'm bleeding money keeping Luke and I afloat. I have a small life insurance policy which'd be enough for Luke to cremate me, and get through high school. Although he hates staying with and living with his father and the new wife, he's resilient enough to adapt, I think, even though he calls me every day when he's with his dad. Tonight, we're supposed to watch "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" together, Luke just having finished the book and planning to write his book report based upon the novel. (I made him promise to watch it until he finished the book.)

I purposely have kept my mother out of the loop on all that's been going on, because I wouldn't need to kill myself--she'd kill me on her own, and I mean that sincerely. She's not exactly the smiling light in my dreams. She's the one who reminds me that I'm overweight, fucked in the head and a colossal slob who drains her of any joy (not that she has any, which is her own fault) in her life, which is an indirect mirror image of what my father's life was to her.

I have the means and I have a plan. It's a matter of executing such plans that's up for debate. Don't send anyone after me; you won't find me. I do and am trying to think of my son, who adores me and I him, but his life will be made 100 times more horrible as well if I get booted out of school. And what kind of life is that for him? He's already unhappy, except for when he's with me, which is something to strongly consider. I just don't know what to do now...fight or flight? Does the administration of my school honestly want a student's suicide on their conscience for the rest of their lives? Because it would be. I'm sure they'd sleep well at night.

Going to hell, I'm not worried about. I strongly feel my soul will eternally carry on, just like my father's. This is where Pastor's input would come in handy. I don't necessarily believe in eternal damnation, especially for those who have suffered enough on earth. I've been on the slow suicide train for years already.

"Where can a bum find dead and bored? When you gonna make it stop raining, Lord?"

Family Planning, Brady Bunch Style.

Luke's graduation is over a month away and I'm still not sure what we're doing for the occasion. My thought (in tandem with Luke's wishes) was to have a cake/coffee at our house after the ceremony, as the whole class is boycotting the LUSA reception at Messiah Lutheran, a church largely unaffiliated with either of his school's campuses. We tried our best, parents and students alike, and since the kids protested (with their parents en masse) having the graduation at Messiah instead of the campus where they've attended since they were in Pull-Ups training pants, St. Paul was ruled out, though we hope to take pictures there before the ceremony. Messiah is a dark and dingy old building with no handicapped access. It sucks.

Administration be damned, that was really all Luke wanted for his graduation--a small reception at home. Enter Dad and worse yet, THE OTHER GRANDMA, whom Luke won't even acknowledge as his "grandma," because, dare I say, she's more vile than...well. That goes without saying. Luke didn't win the grand prize in the grandmother department. Both of his grandpas would love him to bits and do anything to make him happy. Sadly, they're both dead. :(

His father's side wants to host a party-party at their Hoarders-worthy house (which the other grandma flatly admits, needs "some renovation"), never mind that it's impossible to find, and there's nowhere to park, and Luke doesn't want to have a party there. That's immaterial, according to his dad and dad's new wife. I think we should do whatever Luke wants in this circumstance, but I have to say, it's grating on my last nerve.

I also don't know what in hell is going on with Guy and my birthday. That's most unnerving, given I ordered the second of his two birthday gifts today, while he probably hasn't put one iota of attention into my celebration yet whatsoever. I found these great descriptions of what life must be like for him at home with Lady GuyGuy:

Alrighty then! Maybe once every few months, oddly, they utter something like this, which I personally find totally hysterical:

Meanwhile, he's missing out on what we used to have at the office, where all the action happened, and I was the apple of his wandering eye:

Then I've got this teenager at home, and while we can watch raunchy Louis CK standup together, I can't help but squirm when I think. Every time we go to the pediatrician, he picks up the latest copy of "Puberty for Boys," as if something has changed in the last 6 months:

I'm cool with whatever Luke's got going on--I'm an open-minded mom, but I have to draw the line somewhere:

But back to Guy and Lady GuyGuy. I'm sure he's uttered this more than once in 30+ years, on the off nights when he doesn't fall asleep in the living room watching "The Daily Show With Jon Stewart."

After all, they did procreate 3 times. How, I do NOT know. All I can think of are these:

Certainly, I know for sure that his kids, or somebody, has been on the blog and has seen more than he/she wishes to have seen, and thinks this of me:

It started out as innocent fun, truly, it did. We were work husband and wife. And everybody's got to have one of those, you know? It's SO commonplace now, it's innocuous. 

I highly doubt Lady GuyGuy thinks this about him anymore; meanwhile, my wily libido aches:

Though it's certainly not something I'd discuss with my housekeeper, assuming I had one, which I don't, and never will. I'll be lucky to escape the jail in which I live now:

Some things are on a need-to-know basis:

Good gawd, I miss Guy. I went so far as to text him an actual "I miss you" last night, to which he didn't respond. I pretty much expected so..

I don't expect him to get me a birthday gift, certainly not, given I don't know if I'll even see him on my birthday. 

I try to remember Carol Brady's wisdom when I yearn for Guy time....if only he'd comply !

It seems like all I get from Guy is this:

Ugh.

Yes, I'd love to share this with Guy and Guy with me, though my stories are no doubt more colorful:

On the off chance he remembers my birthday, and we go out,  I might utter this:

In any event, I'll always think of him this way, remembering times gone by, when we were still close:

I miss you, Guy, but you already know that.

Turn On, Tune In and Drop Out

This past week was my first week of a 2-week sabbatical before Summer Term, which is packed and I'll be extremely busy for the next 9 weeks, I think it is.

My son was also home for Spring Break, which coincided with the Easter holiday, as he goes to a Christian school. It started with Easter with my brother and his son, at a traditional Polish restaurant for a Polish Catholic meal. Universally enjoyed, no one managed to have an eye poked out the whole day, though it hurt a little to overhear my mom laughing heartily with my brother in living room and her saying a boisterous, "Oh, Steve, I LOVE you!" When she says it to me, it seems an obligatory gesture such as saying "God Bless you" when someone sneezes.

I could've spent more time writing, but I slept...a lot. Apart from a trip to Chinatown (you don't want to know, but I'll tell you later) in Chicago with my mom and my son, I essentially slept. Why? It wasn't that I wasn't sufficiently rested, though my brain did need a serious break. This was the first term SINCE my first term when I managed to get all of my work in on time, without needing incompletes or extensions due to my constantly fluctuating moods. I did papers on the fly, and got A's on them the night before they were due. And that was in a depressive mood! I think it's been that way the whole term.

I didn't get a chance to go out with any of my friends over the last week, and won't until Meg and I go out on Cinco de Mayo, which is also Guy's birthday (though we won't cross paths). That means a whole extra week at home with my mother, trying to stay out of her distance so I don't get the shit kicked out of me. I should've made the call to find a new therapist, but I didn't get around to it, which I needed to. It was a most un-productive week overall. This week, I have doctor appointments and should get a haircut, and should straighten out some bullshit paperwork with school and with Medicaid.

It's most likely because of depression. When I'm depressive, I need almost 20 hours of sleep a day. No joke. Today, for example, I slept until noon but was nodding off again by 1:30 pm, yet dragged my ass up and drove to DuPage county for gas & cigarettes (they're much cheaper there). I lied down for about 45 minutes after I got home, but never fell completely back asleep. At present, I'm exhausted.

Things haven't been made helpful at home by my mom, who keeps telling people on the phone (hell if I know who she's talking to) about my extensive medical condition and how tremendously fat I've gotten. The Synthroid hasn't really kicked into full gear yet, and I'm still puffy all over with water weight gain. She went so far last night out to dinner to nix my choice of the family appetizer because "that's not good for you." Because I'm heavy. That hurt my feelings pretty badly.

Things are so out of hand--last weekend--I think--that I started cutting again. I used a steak knife to cut across my abdomen. There, because nobody will ever see it. No one will ever see me naked, so who cares? I was on an almost 5-year hiatus from cutting, but I needed the release.  I can't shift the blame on any one particular person; rather, it was the culmination of ignorance, mocking, snide remarks and oversight of too many people in my life and those who are choosing to revel in their victories, rubbing them in all over like salt in a wound. I did 2 rounds of abdominal cutting, neither of which drew blood, and I'd wished I'd gone deeper, but I didn't. It didn't scar for more than a few days. And you know what? I don't give a shit if it did.

I've been catching flack lately because I've been telling everyone I'm a potato. I mean that in all sincerity. It's what my shape looks like now. I used to be rail thin and beautiful. Now I'm a potato. Everyone says, "Just eat right and exercise!" HI. I CAN'T. The only physical exercise I've been cleared to do medically is swim and thyroid weight doesn't just disappear. I don't eat any more or less than I did when I was anorexically thin. I've only been on the medication for 5 weeks, for crying out loud. If only a miracle could happen and I could look like I did when I turned 40, I'd be happy as a clam. Alas...

Furthermore, while Guy has been decent about responding to texts, I still don't have an email where I can reach him nor do I know where in the county to which he moved. I asked him out for my birthday on May 9th over a month ago, and he's still wishy-washy about it. I HATE THAT. Make a decision. Meg's my backup plan, even though we're slated to go out for a girls' night on Cinco de Mayo as well. God bless Meg--she doesn't want me to be alone, or worse, with my family, on my birthday. (My family will celebrate on May 10th, a Saturday when I play drums, and my brother is coming to see me. Hi, nerves! Stagefright! We're also celebrating Mothers Day.)

I miss Guy terribly. He hasn't called in over a month (since March 21st, I looked at my phone), and I haven't seen him in 3-4 months. I know I'm a the bottom of the priority list, but a check-in once in a while (to say, "Hi, yeah, I'm cutting again!") would be nice of him. I understand, he just moved, blah, blah blah, but he could call during his lengthy commute home from work like he used to, right?

I did find Guy's birthday present in Chinatown, It's small and probably insignificant, but I liked it, and it was blessed by an actual Buddhist monk. And Luke and I bought matching pairs of nunchucks to fight one another with, which is always a good mom/son activity ( I won match #1, easily....his wrists are too limp!). Never having been to Chinatown, I didn't realize how scuzzy and unkempt it is, and how much it stank, nor how many shops full of junk there would be. The food at the widely recommended restaurant? I've had better in my neck of the woods, and then there was that whole experience of taking Luke for a bubble tea at a Communist-run tea shop, the workers in army-green shirts with red lapel patches, a giant map of China on the wall (obviously) and a huge framed picture of Chairman Mao adorning the wall. Me, dressed in a sweatshirt bearing the Polish flag, needed and wanted to get out of there as soon as was humanly possible. With some hand sanitizer, my family and I made it back to the safe confines of our own ghetto.

Next week, no sleeping in. Luke goes back to school and needs a ride early in the morning. I have a significant amount of tasks to accomplish which I put off all of last week in favor of sleep.

This picture is part truth and part fib. Yes, some of us (like potatoes) have to resign ourselves that our lives will entail just ourselves, our work and/or our kids, who'll abandon us for adulthood in less than a decade. I suppose you just have to grow comfortable being by yourself for the rest of your life...no sex, no intimacy, no love (of that kind). Still, as I've probably mentioned before, affection from the opposite sex is an inherent craving. (Or same sex, whatever you're into.) It literally hurts to be this alone and while friends and family's hugs help, it's not the same thing.

But it's still a lonely existence as it surely must be for at least some men.  Still, it's reality. The person I want to grow old with has already grown old without me, which pains me like you can't imagine. I honestly could give 2 shits (or go to great lengths to let everyone and their Uncle know about it) about how well others' relationships are going, how much love they're receiving that they don't appreciate and how they claim they still want more out of life. Walk a day in my unrequited shoes, gals, and stop rubbing your stink in my virgin face. If you're happy, congrats. There's no need to smear it all over social media, in my opinion. Some modicum of tact is decent. My clairvoyant sees a future for Guy and myself, and to date, she's never been wrong, but I think in this case, she might be. I try to have faith that it'll work out, really.

But it won't. Because, in the words of my favorite comedian, Louis CK...

Guantanamo Bay: Well, At Least It's Warm There.

As you know, I live with my living parent, not by choice, but out of a coin toss between here and my SUV. It's another seemingly subzero mid-April Chicago day, yet I believe nary anything colder runs than the blood through some people's veins. Me? No. I'm not a screeching temper-loser. I don't yell. (Hi, Valium!) I either silently cold-shoulder a conflict, out-intellectualize purposefully, passive-aggressively retort or, you know, write. If I'm vehement or impassioned about a stance on a topic of debate or discussion, I might raise my voice, but it's never out of disrespect or ill-spirit. Conversely, if I feel belittled for no valid reason, or accused of something unjustly, at times I'll speak more vigorously.

My son lives here much of this time as well, more so now that his father's job schedule hours have changed. While my parent keeps threatening to throw us out if we don't abide by her iron fist regulations and demands, and agree with her sociopolitical, narrow-minded, homophobic, conservative viewpoints about the world (apparently, she's going to heaven and I'm not), my strongest impetus is to believe that when the day finally comes when Luke and I are able to and DO, in fact, leave, she will mentally shatter. Which, of course, will be all my fault, because her personality type is (which I may have alluded before) to blame every ill of the world on anyone but herself. In a standard two-faced manner, one day I'll be told to pack my bags and the next day told that I am so incapable, incompetent and sick that I'll never be able to live independently and thus will require round-the-clock care.

Not having seen my son since Monday morning, I wanted to catch up with him as we went upstairs after picking him up from school, when I was dead-tracked and, when asked to stop what I was doing and listen to a 10-minute Pavarotti classical aria, and I said I didn't want to at the moment, was told, "You know, fuck you. Never mind. You're never interested in anything I like. Go on, go upstairs. Go do your thing." I didn't snap my "No." I factually, simply stated that I didn't feel like hearing the music. (It's nothing personal. I'd say the same thing to Luke if he asked me to listen to a Biggie Smalls CD.) Meg and I had to laugh just a little because I asked her if I was a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay and she said, "Maybe solitary confinement would be nicer!" I said, "Why do you think I'm in my room?"

It was made both worse and better by Luke's presence. On the one hand, she typically picks fights with me when he's not home, because 90% of the time, he completely Papa Bear's me. On the other hand, it's a minus because she could hear us both laughing when I finally escaped her vulturous clenches of rage and escaped to the safety of the house's upper floor. Then we both got yelled at. Then stuff was being banged around downstairs and we could hear her blowing her nose loudly and obviously.

Luke and I get in trouble and screamed at and verbally assaulted for some of the pettiest, stupidest, most trivial nonsense (please, must I use ad hominem twice in 2 situations in one week?) one could ever imagine in the transoms of the universe, because my psychiatrist and I have come to the conclusion that my parent, who in addition from being chronically depressed, has Borderline Personality Disorder. We first thought Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but after reviewing the criteria for both, it's not the latter in significance, though there are elements of it interspersed in her ritualistic negative undertones.

I have my own mental illnesses (bipolar disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, still some PTSD) yet have only studied other mental illnesses at length for the last 2 years in grad school. While I *did* get an A in the class on diagnostics, truer words were never spoken than when Guy said, as a doctor, sometimes it's the hardest to treat the ones you love. Mental illness runs rampant on my maternal side of the family--paranoid schizos, OCD's, depression, substance abuse, and most recently, a suicide. (Or, as my mother says, so-and-so was "a little off," or "not all with it," or "off her rocker.") After dinner one night, as I was covering which-relative-had-what, my mother asked me if I thought she was mentally ill. I chickened out and only told her that I knew she had depression, which she kind of denied. She's plateaued on the same low dose of an anti-depressant her PCP gave her like 20 years ago, which does nothing.

What's the DSM-5 criteria for Borderline, you ask? To make the diagnosis, the person must identify with at least 5 of the 9 demarcated characteristics, so these are the ones that stand out to me:

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. (See above.)

2. A pattern of unstable and an intense interpersonal relationship characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation. (Example: My mother, who only has a high school diploma, raves to friends and other family that I'm studying at a swanky graduate school, and how proud she is, but puts me down about my school and schedule, the financial aid, and has told me more than once to just quit the program and get a job.)

3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self. ("I'm just your slave!" "All anyone ever does is take advantage of me." Desperate attempts to completely control not only her environment but the people around her.)

4. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g. intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days). (Example: MAJOR mood swings and shifts of personality display.Very easily startled. Will stay on task or work quietly unless someone is within earshot, at which point, she'll wince, moan and become markedly agitated.)

5. Chronic feelings of emptiness. (Self-explanatory. While she volunteers at her church, our suggestion is that she adopt a more altruistic AND TIME CONSUMING cause so that she is not so perpetually wrapped up in her own thoughts. Something to give her meaning outside of the home and not having to do with the family. I'm wondering if my pastor can pull something out for her to do.)

6. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g. frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights). (I've been slapped twice, called a bitch, told "Fuck you," am persistently insulted and demeaned, and lest we forget the smashing of dishes which I photographed, and vulgar outbursts over inconsequential things, accompanied by irrationality and crying outbursts.)

7. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe disassociative symptoms. (She literally thinks her life is the product of bad luck, others' maltreatment of her/us, my treatment of her, Luke or my disrespect, or the usual scapegoat, Dad. Something is everyone's fault.)

It's sad. It's very sad. If I even begin to suggest she visit an actual psychiatrist for proper medical treatment or see a real counselor on a regular basis, oh my, the stigma latches on. It's ironic and probably unnerving for her that I'm in the field of psychology because she's so anti-psychology, mostly a generational regurgitation passed from the beak of bird to bird to bird in her family tree's nest.

One might argue, "Why don't you/didn't you just take the time out to sit and listen to the aria?" In a word: autonomy. A different agenda. Yes, agreeably for all that my mother does to feed and house me in a clean, safe place (her summer garden decorations notwithstanding, which I trip and fall over constantly), I should probably be more gracious in resigning to her requests, whether they be insignificant or significant, timely or untimely. Still, I am a 41-year old woman with a packed schedule and a child with whom I like to spend time (usually). I have friends I want to see. I have a lot of work to do. My methods of decompression do not mesh with hers. Mostly, Luke and I just try to stay out of the line of fire.

I finished, ironically, Family and Couples Therapy today and decided it's definitely NOT the specialty I want to burst through. What did I learn the last 15 weeks? That every family is dysfunctional in some way. Some worse than others. A friend asked, "What happened to 'Can't we all just get along?'" to which I responded, that compassion can only take place after everyone gets their hands off of one another's choking throats.

But she said I'd make a great divorce mediator. With today's lush marriage crumbling market (it's up to 75% fail rate!), it makes perfect sense. Seek therapy, mediate with the divorce mediator (who might also counsel) to work out the details, visit the accountant, use the lawyer's services only to draw up legal papers for court, then buy yourself a funeral plot. Then take a tropical vacation to Guantanamo Bay. It can't be any worse than living with your parents when you're middle aged or getting a messy divorce.

Laid.

WARNING: NOT SAFE FOR WORK (unless, you like, work alone in your office after hours, or can close a door, or you know, no one else is around...)

It's not terribly often you'll hear The Offbeat Drummer talk frankly about S-E-X. Why not?

Old story. What, 4 years ago? I ended an abusive relationship in which a large part of it was me being forcibly sexually assaulted, for the greater part of 3 years. "NO's" were not adhered, ghastly crap went down, and it is safe to say it damaged my psyche pretty badly, emotional, physical and verbal abuse too. Through a lot of therapy and gentle friends (male and female), though, I am in a much better place about intimacy now than I was then. I was literally so scared that there were only a handful of men whom I'd allow near me, much less NEAR me. In the interim time from then until now, I had one sexual encounter with one man in the course of one morning, he knows who he is, and it was everything it should've been and was entirely cool and a long time coming (no pun intended).

Read: Ready to green light more than a little slithering (damnit, cues I missed to get closer, damn damn damn!) and butterfly kisses (I should've just gone for it). I have been for a while, I'm just only vocal about it with certain trusted friends (and now, the universe). Why so timid? Lots of reasons: Fear of rejection, Self-esteem crises, lack of opportunity, reciprocated crushes that cowered distantly, logistics, and new crushes I can't figure out of which their orientations or availability might sway, and a general lack of man-to-woman social interaction.

Celibacy is beginning to suck royally and not literally.

It didn't help that I had my annual (er, semi-annual, with my history, my bad) checkup with the gynecologist this morning. I haven't been back since the surgical re-check on my hysterectomy 2 years ago, though with my penchant for growing budding cancer in that "area," I was supposed to go every 3 months (which should clue you in on the value upon which I place my life!), and had all the standard chick stuff done, including a pap smear. (Guys, man up.) The nurse, during her inquisition, asked me if I'm sexually active and I actually sort of rattled off a pissed off "NO! BUT THANKS FOR THE REMINDER, TWATWAFFLE!" In any event, I told the doctor I hate her today a) because not only does she call me 3 days after every exam I have to tell me there's something drastically wrong with me I need to "come in and talk to her about," but also that she knocked me out and removed all my piercings. (Still not over that.) Otherwise, everything superficially seems normal, except for the fact that I should probably do more Kegel exercises, though, like, for what?

Then I got home and my friend had posted this video that Upworthy also found prudent enough to post, about the notion of "consent" in a physical/romantic or sexual relationship or encounter. Apparently, according to my friend, it's popular on the West coast, but it hasn't made it as far east as Chicago. "Can I/May I hug you?" "Can I/May I kiss you?" Much of it I can understand as a survivor of sexual abuse, but my golly goodness, is it taken to the extreme. OK, you have to stomach this video clip for it to be in context before I continue my rant. Trust me, by the end, you'll want to wire this Trixie girl's jaw shut forever as much as I do. Take it away, Laci Underalls!

:37 seconds in: She implies that if a man with whom I'm being romantic leans over for a gentle kiss, he's committing sexual assault and violating a "mandatory" consent on my part. 

FAIL!

I've been raped, Laci Underalls. Trust me, sweetums, it ain't the same thing.

But go on...

1:01: "Sexual coercion is often seen as acceptable." 

BRING IT ON! I'VE BEEN WAITING!

But you were saying...

1:22: Suggestions on asking for consent, with Laci Underalls camera-positioned on top of her supposed partner, asking him (her?) SIX THOUSAND QUESTIONS about the experience in the moment.

AT WHICH POINT, YOUR PARTNER GRABS A HANDY CAN OF PEANUT BRITTLE STRATEGICALLY PLANTED ON THE NIGHTSTAND AND SAYS, "HONEY, WILL YOU CHEW ON THIS? I'D *REALLY* LIKE THAT BECAUSE THE INCESSANT JIBBA JABBA OF YOUR INTERROGATION IS DRIVING ME APESHIT CRAZY AND I'D LIKE IT VERY MUCH, IT'D TURN ME WAY ON IF YOU'D SHUT THE FUCK UP, CHEW LOUDLY AND DROWN YOURSELF OUT BECAUSE I'M ALREADY LOSING IT!"

FAIL.

2:42: "Consent is a clear 'Yes!' 'Enthusiastic!' Out loud!'"

RAH, RAH, SISS BOOM BAH! HIT HIM IN THE HEAD WITH A KIELBASA! I DIDN'T REALIZE WE WERE AUDITIONING FOR A SPOT ON THE CHEERLEADING SQUAD.

FAIL.

3:10: I will agree with her that overt utterances of "Stop," "No," "I don't like this," "You're hurting me," etc are all appropriate and necessary ways to halt an otherwise uncomfortable romantic or sexual situation. 

***

The next blah-blah couple of minutes: How you should iterate that no means no, and she gets all pouty and nauseating. She also rattles off a list of people you shouldn't have sex with and why. I agree with some and disagree with some. Except doctors and rock stars. You should always sleep with doctors and rock stars.

**

5:26: "Consent Culture"

My guess this is in response to what is being purported as "rape culture," as a counterpoint. Dandy.  But it's a bit over the top, and in my opinion, takes a hell of a lot of romance out of romance. Passion out of passion. Lust and love out of lust and love. Expression out of expression. Affection out of affection. And straight up, what kind of flat, operational, contractual, "sign-here-and-let's-get-down" bullshit is THAT? If, in the remote impossibility I was finally, by a miracle of God, in a situation with any one of the people to whom I'm attracted enough to want to at least kiss at a relatively moderate level, I'd be bonkers in the back of my mind wondering if ALL OF THIS is ALRIGHT WITH HIM. (Yes, have a scotch! Jesus!) 

Now that you've seen Laci Underalls and listened to her consent diatribble (she speaks at colleges? Don't people throw watermelons at her like Gallagher? I would...), can you see why this whole thing peeves me?

I'm not saying just shut up, lie there and get it over with as soon as possible. That's no fun. That's what you do when you're married and the passion is gone. And, as Chekhov said, "If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry." (Married people, believe it or not, masturbate far more frequently than single people do. Why? You have to bloody ask?)

There are hundreds of ways and sounds and caresses and means by which you can show your partner you are or aren't enjoying your romantic or sexual encounter without reciting the Stations of the Cross, your SAT scores or an extensive explanation of how you organize your shoes in your closet. You don't need to enter into an intercourse discourse about changing positions. Just fucking do your fucking (or making love, depending on what your thing is with your person). Save the conversation for dinner, foreplay or pillow talk. 

My suggestion, in fact, Laci Underalls, is that if you're going to have one of these obligation questionnaires, VOICE them before ("Would you like?") or after ("Did you like?") but for crissakes, not during. Enjoy the experience for what it is. Or don't enjoy it for what it isn't and put an end to it. Bang.

For me, personally, I love a learned man. An educated man. A well-read man. A smart man who makes me laugh at silly, stupid things, listens to music, can exchange intellectually, is a good listener, has a compassionate heart, is friendly, has facial hair, a nice smile, doesn't live with his mom, is passionate and likes to kiss and hug, knows philosophy, and will treat me with respect and be communicative. There, I've just described not one, but all the men to whom I'm currently attracted. So there, Guy(s). You're all as sexy as hell.