Rawnald Gregory Erickson The Second--STRFKR

It's that time of year again.

Christmas.

Bah humbug.

My Dad keeps telling me to get over it and move on with my life. Thanks, Dad. That really helps.

Seriously, though. Don't you think that I want to be okay? Don't you think that I want to wake up one day and not feel the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that always reminds me? (My Mom is dead.)

The other day I got the Christmas tree out and put it up. Yeah, it's that same fake tree that is probably riddled with lead and made in China. Mom told me years ago not to let the kids mess with it so they wouldn't get lead poisoning. I didn't take that too seriously. Clearly. But I don't let them chew on it either. (My Mom is dead, she's not fussing about it now.)

The girls were thrilled about the tree, they were ready to decorate it. So I milked that for all it was worth, telling them they had to clean up the play room before they could hang ornaments. One day and one clean room later, they were plucking ornaments from my hands faster than I could attach the hooks. It looked really nice, and Anna-Lee put the angel on top. She's that tall now. (Their GG is dead, now that's depressing.)

So now the tree is trimmed. We're ready for Christmas. If only I could find the Ho Ho Ho decorations Mom made for me. (Too bad your Mom is dead, you could've asked her if she knew where they are.)

So now I'm just hanging out, wrapping presents. Hiding presents. Checking my lists. The corners of these gifts need to look just so...Flashback to Sarah saying, "They're just going to tear the paper anyway. It doesn't have to be perfect," as I meticulously cut along the grid lines of the wrapping paper. This time I threw caution to the wind and now the gifts look like my kids wrapped them. Oh well.

There is much to do between now and Christmas. A lot of everyday stuff like dishes and laundry. As I fold clothes I think, oh wow, Mom bought this for Anna-lee/Addison way back in the day. Fold. Sort. Change to dishes. I put broken dishes in the garbage after putting all the others away. Bella broke a coffee cup yesterday. My dead Mom bought me that. Addison broke a bowl at breakfast. It was one of Mom's. But hey, I didn't even cry this time. That's some improvement, right?

Ugh. I know. It's exhausting. I think I'm just going to give up now. (My Mom is dead, who's going to cheer me up now?)

Okay. Enough of the sulking. Yeah, my Mom is dead. But she wasn't just my Mom. She was lots of things to lots of different people. And if you're one of them, I'm sorry for your loss as well. And she's not the only Mom that's passed, not the only person you or I are going to miss this holiday season. And I'm sorry for those losses as well.

I guess I just want to point out that if you're feeling sad today because of someone you've lost, you're not alone. And if you feel like there are people pushing you to get over your sadness just know this: there will come a day when you don't think about them and cry. There will be a day that you wake and go your whole day without mourning them. But there will always be a time that you can't help but cry. And that's okay. Because crying won't kill you. I'm living proof.

My Mom is dead. I'm trying to get over it. I really am.

When The Shit Goes Down-- Cypress Hill

The phone was pressed to my face, sweat gathered there in an instant.

The voice on the other end of the line inquired if I was "one of the girls."

I folded my fingers over the receiver and whisper-shouted to the others, "We forgot her underwear!"

After a brief exchange with the woman from the funeral home, I assured her that I was on my way with underwear and socks. You know mom always had to have her socks on, I had explained to the others. I don't know how it got to be my job to pick out the underwear.

I remember being little and Mom had a whole drawer full of lace and satin fancy underwear. But when I went looking for the particular red Teddy I remembered from digging through all that satin and lace, I could find no such thing. Sarah told me that she had gotten rid of all that stuff. Since it was available I chose red underwear and a red bra and even a pair of red socks. I remember telling the other kids that no one will see her feet, not even us.

I think about that sometimes, but assure myself that, yeah, they probably put those damn red socks on her with her nice power suit. And only we knew, and If they didn't actually use the socks for Mom (I didn't look), I hope they gave them to some homeless person. She would have liked that.

So we buried Mom in her white suit with the blue pinstripes, red underwear and socks. I also stuffed some gently used tissues in her sleeve to make her feel more at home in her coffin. She never went anywhere without a partially used tissue stuffed in a pocket or sleeve.

Maybe she appreciated it. I like to think she appreciates my humor from heaven.

Classic Girl -- Jane's Addiction

Today I tweeted about Bella unlocking and opening the front door before I could get to her and prevent it. The churchboys on the other side were smiling in their starched white shirts with pocket protectors. I'm sure what they saw made them want to run away, if only they'd had the inclination to do so: Arabella leading the pack in her fancy pink-gingham dress (far too fancy for a day of playing), Nero ( who is a fucking ginormous husky, if you didn't know) on her heels, me (the braless wonder in cotton short shorts and a snug-round-the-chest white  RHCP t-shirt, grabbing desperately for Nero's collar lest he escape), and Anna-Lee and Addison, who had stepped to the side to let me through (Anna, all the time saying, "Don't open the door, Bella," without actually moving to stop her). Ah, what a sight we must have been. I can still see their smiling faces. Right before I told them, "Just go away, please. That would be great." And shut the door abruptly.

I didn't mean to be so amusing, it just happened that way. Don't worry, I'm not completely rude to everyone who comes to the door. I tip the pizza delivery people really well. And I'm even polite to them. But that's because I've been expecting them. If I'm elbow deep in dish water, wearing lounge clothes, I usually don't even answer the door. Honestly, most people are thwarted by the "NO SOLICITING..." sign. Unfortunately, there wasn't one hanging beside the front door today. The one that was there had gotten torn and I had forgotten to replace it. I had had three or so blissfully undisturbed days during which I neglected to make and hang a new sign. Until today's incident. The churchboys hadn't yet made their way completely around the court before I was hanging a new one. Wouldn't want to make THAT mistake again.

Sometimes the sign doesn't thwart unwanted solicitors. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I had to point out the sign to someone... The doorbell rang. I stopped right in the middle of making lunch to answer it, assuming it was an unscheduled visitor, because who would possibly ring the bell after reading the sign?

He was a young man, maybe 20, if that, and began his speech about meeting new people as soon as I opened the door. I can spot a salesman from a thousand yards. Hell, I was raised by a salesman, and I even married one. I was nonplussed. I silenced him with a gesture. I didn't want to know why he was at the door.

"You didn't read the sign, did you?" I sighed, giving the young man a disdainful look.

"I--I didn't know there was a sign," he stammered, the salesman turned young boy before my wilting gaze.

"Read the sign," I said, and shut the door.

During my years living in the burbs I've learned that it's better for both parties involved if you just abruptly put an end to their sales pitch. Otherwise you risk (1) either buying something you neither want nor need (out of pity or because you're a complete push-over incapable of being blunt) or (2) pissing off the salesman by letting them get through their entire pitch before saying, "I don't actually want what you're selling," or (better still) "I don't actually have any cash on me, but thanks for stopping by." And, trust me, there's nothing worse than the look on their face once they know they've just wasted 20 minutes telling you all about a product that you're not actually going to buy or sign up for--or better. I'm torn really. I hate to waste their time, but if I'm being perfectly honest I have actually waited for them to finish their sales pitch before saying I'm not interested  (this also works really well for telemarketers, though they are more prone to cussing and angry rants if you do). It's all a matter of what you're interested in, I suppose. If you've got the time and just really want to irritate someone, go for it. Otherwise, make yourself a sign for the door that dares anyone with enough balls to ring anyway. It really weeds out the true, I-won't-take-no-for-an-answer types from their mealy-mouthed counterparts. In which case, if you've got enough balls to read my sign that all but says "Fuck Off," then you deserve my withering gaze, acid tongue, and door slammed in your face.

Come on over to the suburbs and I'll show you how it's done. Or not. Whatever.

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.

Swallowed -- Bush

"...I'm with everyone and yet not
just wanted to be myself
here you said you would love to try some
here you said you would love to die some..."

I guess you may be wondering why I've been gone so long. But I'm not writing to answer any of those questions you may have. I'm here to tell you that I'm finishing my book. When it's done you'll know, and then I will try to write regularly again. In the meantime, continue to amuse yourself by reading old blog posts or rare new posts on tumblr and you can even follow me on twitter.

When I was in high school I bought a TV with my very first paycheck from a job outside working for Mom and Dad. I hooked up a VCR and my stereo to my new TV. (Yes, I said VCR!) and one of the first movies I ever had was the high-school-graduation-flick Can't Hardly Wait, on VHS, of course. I remember watching it with Mom and her being just as entertained as I was by the film. I think I even had to start it over from the beginning so that she could watch the whole thing with me. It's funny how you remember things, because I also remember that she had been doing something, and that it was the middle of the afternoon, and she just stopped and sat down to watch the movie with me.

Sometimes, when Mom's desk was just inside the doorway of their small home office, and she could watch what I was watching on TV in the living room, she would--at least you'd think--be endlessly clicking the keys on the keyboard or calculator and doing her work, and suddenly stop to ask, "What the hell are you watching?"

"Buffy, the Vampire Slayer," I'd said one day when Mom looked at me particularly incredulously. Even years after it had originally aired, I had still not seen every episode, and it was back-to-back Buffy on FX. I hadn't really expected that Mom was paying attention to what I was watching, and I was surprised that she, indeed, was actually watching what was on from the other room.

One day, a weird indy Brendan Frasier movie was on, and I happened to be watching it's awesomeness, when Mom suddenly plopped down on the couch beside me and said, "What's this called? It's good!"

To this day I can't remember the name of that movie, but we watched the rest of it together, and both agreed that it was a great movie, and wished we could get our hands on our own copy.

Sometimes when you try to hold on so hard to all the great memories you had with someone who's gone now, it's difficult to remember how the smallest things were great too. We used to watch Mama's Family after I got home from school. It wasn't something that we were trying to plan to do together, but it just happened. Mom would be popping the popcorn when I came in the door, and then we'd sit together in the living room and watch TV and eat popcorn.

One of the best gifts Mom ever bought for Anna-Lee was the Hello Kitty popcorn popper. We still use it today. And I cook popcorn and watch TV and movies with the girls. I don't really think about it when I'm doing it, but the things that I still cherish about the time I had with my mother are things that I try to do with my children. Without realizing it, I am creating lasting memories with my daughters just by watching a movie and eating popcorn with them. One day they're going to look back and say, "You remember when we watched Brave a million times with Mom? I think it was her favorite Disney movie!"

I read an article this week from Scientific American Mind, I think, about sleep being key to helping sever the links to painful, traumatizing memories; and that people with PTSD have problems with those links being severed during REM sleep. Makes sense, I guess. You should totally Google it and read the article. Considering everything, I guess I'm just lucky to have the memories at all, good and traumatizing. For all the bad shit that we had to deal with, that I saw, heard, and experienced as our Mother's life came to a close, I still have so many good memories with my Mother. I can't be fixed. I know that now. I'm super sad about my Mom dying, and I probably always will be, but I refuse to wallow in it anymore.

There will be days when I will be upset, of course, but I'm choosing to let go. Now we will just have to wait and see if I actually can.

Live to Rise -- Soundgarden

Fuel -- Metallica

I guess I'll add fuel to the fire. It's what I do best, anyway.

I guess what I really need to say, on the outset, is that my family is fucking A awesome.

But, and it's hard to explain, they have turned their backs on me. They have torn asunder the support and comfort their love has always provided me before. I know they did so for a very good reason, in their opinions, and in the end they are relentlessly stubborn. That's all right. Inside, though I may be scared and unsure sometimes, is a very strong young woman.

Something inside me believes that I can overcome all obstacles set before me no matter how difficult things seem to be. I also know that if I could change the past there are a lot of things I would. But that's not possible. I know the past cannot be changed. The one thing that I can change is the future.

I suppose it's comforting to you that I have failed. That we failed so completely and miserably that you will forever see us for that failure rather than the fact that we are able to move beyond that failure to have a happy, successful life together. I suppose your own relationship is perfect, far from the possibility of mistakes. You are quipped with judgement and harshness in the face of my mistakes, my significant other's unwise choices, and my own unwillingness to throw away a decade of life and family together. How useful your disdain is while you're looking down your noses at me, at us. You, of course, would never make a mistake, never venture into the realm of amoral behaviour or do anything that is against society's laws. Of course not. That might make you an hypocrit. I suppose you live in a glass house, where no one dares to break any rules, whether society's or your own. You are perfection. And so is everyone in your glass house.

You would not, could not, ever do anything--put yourself into any situation without first considering what others might think about it. Never! You've never acted impulsively or brashly in your life. You've never made a mistake, never done a deliberate wrong, or an impulsive thing that changes your life forever. Of course not.

I, however, dare not say that I have not. I have spoken without thinking, acted on impulse without considering the feelings of others, and, in fact, have made huge mistakes...put myself in risky situations, put my own life in danger, and hurt others along the way. But I own it. I have done things that I'm not proud of, and a great many things that I am proud of, that no one even knows about. Some of which I will certainly take to the grave--because to brag about doing something good for another human being merely demonstrates a desire to be acknowledged for being a good person, when I don't need anyone else's opinion on the matter.

If you can honestly go to sleep every night without regretting a single thing you've ever done, then you're probably a sociopath. Perfection and infallibility is for Gods. Mistakes are for humans.

It's useless to claim superiority, infallibility, or perfection. It's useless to attempt to defend my decisions or the sometimes tumultuous turn of events in my life. When my life is over, it's last page turned, I will be able to say that I lived life imperfectly, but fully.

Say Hello 2 Heaven -- Temple of the Dog

Dead Moms Club

The first rule of Dead Moms Club: don't talk about Dead Moms Club. 

(Sorry, I just couldn't help myself. For those of you unfamiliar with this reappropriated movie quote: you missed it!) 

You can talk about Dead Moms Club. If you dare...

Second rule: you can join the club if you meet the following criteria: 
1. Your mom is dead.
2. You're upset about it. (Sociopaths need not apply, of course.)

This isn't a club that you want to join, like Classics Club or something, but it's a lifetime membership. Once you're in, you're in.

Members of this highly inclusive club do not discriminate against those who are in the Dead Dads Club or the Dead Parents Club, in fact, interpersonal relations between members of all clubs is highly recommended.

Meetings of Dead Moms Club are irregular, and no participation is actually required for membership.

A sense of humor is greatly appreciated among members, but only necessary if you don't wish to be offended.

Participation includes, but is not limited to: 

Writing, conversing, laughing, and crying 

Reading books you know your mom must have read and wondering what she thought about them

Hearing one of your mom's favorite songs and thinking, Hey this is one of Mom's favorite songs!

Watching a movie that was one of your mom`s favorites. Watching a movie that your mom bought for you just because you wanted it.

Thinking about your dead mom
at random moments in your life and appreciating what time you did have together.

Slow Cheetah -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

As promised, a new poem:

"Dante's Inferno"

The most horrible place
you can imagine below,
Is where you will be
after you go.

Change the Illusion
you seek to explain
All doing it so
you can inflict pain.

Follow your heart
choose the right path
Then you might really find yourself
Above rather than Below.
After you go.