You're, as Judge Judy Would Say, Bereft of Morality

So, turns out I have super powers. I bet you didn't see that coming did you? Well, maybe you should have thought about that. My super power, of course, comes with great responsibility. So, to spare someone close to me pain, I will grant you anonymity. For now.

My power is my voice. And today--technically yesterday--I used it. I refused to be silent any longer. And so your world crumbled. Don't blame me, you're the sick fuck.

You know who you are.

I know. You sick fuck. And though I know more than I'd like to know, it was necessary.

Maybe it happened to you. But that's no excuse. I am honestly sorry if that is the case. But YOU chose to become an abuser yourself. Every day you have a choice. You chose to do wrong. You chose to hurt others, and instead of ending a cycle of abuse, you chose to perpetuate it. Because one victim actually has a good heart, that cycle stopped there, but the pain you caused is everlasting. It scrapes and tears at the back of the mind and has forever scarred that wonderful heart. But it did not stop its beating, and it will continue on despite your terrible deeds.

This person of whom I speak is the bigger person, but me? I'm a fucking bitch with super fucking powers. I cannot forgive. I cannot excuse. The abused one has such faith in the God you choose not to believe in that they believe you can become a good person after all. I guess that makes them a bigger person than me. I hate you. I wished death upon you. But, no. Death isn't good enough for you. In fact, I hope the world hands you a giant platter of shit, because you deserve it. You deserve to live a very long, lonely, shitty life. And though you choose to NOT believe in God, I truly hope the God I pray to exists and that you will die, stand before Him in judgement and be condemned to eternity in hell. As for now, you deserve hell on earth. And if I were a terrible person I would personally see to it that you live in misery every day. As it happens, I plan on the words I spoke to you today to be the last, and hopefully the last time I will ever see you.

For now, just be thankful that I can't bear to reveal to all the world who you are because it would hurt the one you have abused. But they aren't the only one, are they? I didn't think so. Maybe you will think about what you have done and CHOOSE not to do it again. Because if it ever happens again, I hope you get caught. And I hope you spend the remainder of your shitty life in ass-pounding-prison if you do. So don't. Just spend the rest of your shitty fucking life begging God for forgiveness. But, then again, you'd have to believe in God to beg forgiveness. Beg forgiveness from the ones you have abused. Hope that they truly are better people than you, because you may just spend the rest of your days looking over your shoulder if they aren't the forgiving types.

And for fuck's sake, get some help. Maybe you were abused, who knows. But you CHOSE to do wrong, and you need serious help.

If you'd like to redeem yourself, if there is such a thing, then grow the fuck up and start taking care of yourself. Don't put family and friends in the awkward position of trying to help you. You don't deserve it. You're a fucking grown-up. Fucking act like it.

I have wasted all the time I am going to on you. You are worthless. You are selfish. You are sickening. You're a sick fuck.

You know who you are. You know what you've done. And you know it was wrong. No amount of "I'm sorry"s is ever going to make it right. Good riddance.

Ode to My Family -- The Cranberries

I keep waiting for someone to ask me what gift I got for my Mom for Mother's Day. Or I guess I am just waiting for the opportunity to say, "My Mom's dead, but thanks for bringing it up, you jerk!" 

Three years ago today my Mom passed away. Normally I would have an amusing anecdote to share, but I'm not really feeling it today. Instead I will just tell you that if your own mother is still around, make sure you tell her to get her ass to the doctor for regular women's check-ups. Also, take your own happy ass to the doctor if you think there's something wrong, and make sure you have regular check-ups as well.

The worst thing about my mother dying is that, in retrospect, it might have been prevented if she had had adequate health care. We can always look back and say, "I wish this..." or "If that..." In reality, we will never have a different outcome. All that we can do with this experience is learn from it.

What did I learn from this experience? First, I learned that watching your own mother die is harder than watching someone else's mother die. But watching my husband's mother die was just as traumatic to me as watching my own mother die. And, while I knew that the outcome of both was not good, I hoped, right to the very end, that by some miracle, my mother would be all right. With my husband's mother it was a little easier to accept that she was going to die, but with my own it was nearly impossible. Now, I guess, I know how he must have felt while his mother was dying--because that's how I felt when my own mother was dying.

I also learned that my brain is weak. Not like incompetent or unintelligent, but that one traumatic experience after another has forced me to the edge of sanity, from which I am now clawing my way back. I also know that, aside from soldiers, women are most likely to develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following events in which they experience trauma.

I learned that the health care system in America is seriously fucked. Period.

The hardest lesson that I'm still learning is living without my Mother.

Happy Mother's Day.

A Crow Left of the Murder -- Incubus

I think I have mentioned that I hate birds. I told you that, right? Well, now you know. I fucking hate them. I am contemplating smacking a bird. With a big fucking stick, of course. But not just on a whim. Normally I just accept that there are birds and that their incessant twittering is something that I will have to live with, but not today. If a goddamn bird flies at my head again, I'm going to strike it with my stick as if it were a ball and my stick a Louisville Slugger. Actually, if I could find Anna-Lee's Louisville Slugger I guess I wouldn't need a stick.

By now you must be wondering why I want to hit a bird. Well, let's go back to two weeks ago. I was out in the yard, minding my own damn business, watching the kids bike around the cul-de-sac, when a bird shit on me. Bird-shit on the sleeve of my Red Shirt and the leg of my jeans. You're lucky! you say? Well, define luck. Some cultures hold that you have good luck if you get shit on by a bird. I must be one hell of a lucky girl.

This is not the first time a bird has shit on me. The last time I remember quite clearly: I was lounging on the deck at my parent's house, I was a teenager, it was summertime, and I was reading a book. I had finally gotten comfortable by mushing two chairs together and doubling the cushions, when bird shit landed on my arm. I decided then and there that I fucking hated birds. Birds are fine--as long as they stay the fuck away from me. And don't even fucking ask me if I want to feed the birds at the zoo, because the answer is no. Emphatically, FUCK NO!, to be exact.

Then, last weekend, another trip to the Appalachians for the bi-annual family camping trip. I took Addison to the makeshift toilet at the campsite, where, of course, a fucking bird had made its nest. Addison scared it away from the toilet and it flew right into me, all furious-flapping wings against my chest as I reeled backwards and let out a squeal. Yes, you can laugh, it was probably pretty funny to watch, but I was fucking pissed. Goddamn bird. Don't fly into me. There's a whole fucking forest over there!

Anyway, you can imagine my irritation at simply walking from my patio to the breezeway today and feeling the air off of the wings of a diving robin. I didn't duck today, unlike yesterday, I turned around, and though I was startled by the unprovoked attack, yelled at the bird and threw my hands up in the air.

On the return walk to the back door I picked up a stick. I think the bird saw me, and must know what a stick in the hand is for, because it flew off. I hope it knows that if it didn't have baby birds in its nest I'd take the damn thing down and throw it in the fire pit. I hope those birds grow up soon, because I don't relish the thought of striking a bird with a stick, especially knowing what lengths I'd go to to protect my children.

But I stand firm. The next bird that flies at my head is in for a big fucking surprise. I fucking hate birds.


Update 5/8/13: This afternoon, after exiting my front door and sauntering along the sidewalk, a bird shit on my hand. So I bought lottery tickets. I will let you know if I win. Of course, if I don't and another bird shits on me or flies at my head, I'm not going to be too thrilled.