Ouch, that hurts!

I had a little surgery the other day. I’m fine, healing, but I do get to take some percocet when I need it.

I met with the surgeon before the procedure, a guy I’ve never me t before. We were talking about my sleep apnea, and he told me how it was taking years off my life by not treating it. I explained that I have attempted to treat it, but wearing a mask freaks me out. I can’t stand having something on my face when I sleep. He told me I needed to reconsider and try again, to improve my health and long life.

How can I tell him the truth? I chose not to.

The truth is, I can’t wear a mask because I can’t hear him coming. As a domestic abuse survivor, I have had to keep my ears and eyes open. I couldn’t let myself be vulnerable. The whooshing sound of the mask and breathing camouflages what might be happening.

I don’t tell a lot of people about this, and certainly not a stranger, even if he is a doctor.

But I think I’ll try again. The mask, not the domestic violence. The Husband is a special kind of man, a truly gentle man. I am safe with him, and would not be here if I wasn’t. I’m smarter now, and more cautious. I can wear a sleep mask without fear. I just have to convince myself of that completely.

Wish me luck.

 

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Well, happy Thanksgiving to you too, Grief!

Thanksgiving was going great. My younger son and The Husband and I went to my older son and his wife’s place a few hours away. We had the whole feast that you’d expect: turkey, stuffing, gravy, deviled eggs, the whole nine yards. Most of it made by me, but I’m not complaining. We all enjoyed the day, talking and laughing. We made fun of the older son because he has developed a belly since he married.

After dinner, I excused myself to call my dad before we had dessert. I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose the chance when we started to play games.

So I called my dad. He was leaving my sister’s house where he had dinner. He said he had a nice time.

All I could think of was my mom. One minute, I was fine, the next I was remembering how she ALWAYS answered the phone “Happy Thanksgiving!” all Thanksgiving day.

That was it. I sat there on the blow-up bed, crying my eyes out. Fucking grief. I hate you.

To be grateful

Yesterday was painting day at my old house. We are fixing it up to sell it, as The Husband’s is larger and, quite frankly, there are too many memories in my old house. While some a great, many are negative, or downright scary. I was explaining this to The Husband as I painted baseboards in the master bedroom. Over there is the closet where my youngest son had to hide from his father. Behind the bathroom door was where my ex would take me to abuse me so our kids wouldn’t hear. Etc, etc. So while I can remember the good memories, so many are tainted.

So we are using a primer, since the room hadn’t been painted for close to 30 years. Making a mess, but that’s okay because the carpet will be replaced. Everything is going to be a dazzling white. There will be virtually no trace of those that lived here before, which is the idea.

Last night, I thought it would be a great time to take a bath with The Husband and spend some time reconnecting. We get awfully busy, and he’s been working on a project, so we both have been doing our own thing this past week.

A nice hot bath and some bubbles to boot, an icy cold white Russian and a little grass, and two naked bodies. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.

And you’d be wrong. Well, mostly.

I was sitting with my back to him and he had his legs on either side. We’re just conversing, nothing major, but connecting back to each other. Then he noticed that I had paint in my hair. We had already discovered that primer DOES NOT wash off as easily as the water based paint we were used to. It requires a lot of scrubbing, and won’t just come off with soap and water.

He proceeded to wet my long hair and painstakingly pull out the paint, strand by strand. I didn’t ask him to. He did it because he loves me immensely. Every once in a while, he would pour warm water over my shoulders since I was getting cold. The intimacy of the act was incredible. I shiver even now thinking of it.

And that, my friends, is love, and why he became my husband.

ryan gosling washing woman's hair

And after that, he fingered me to two orgasms, so double score. LOL That’s my man.

 

I need a break – so I’ll take one

Stress kills, from what I’ve heard.

I got the results of my tests back, and I’m fine. No cancer that they have found. So, yay!

Work is stressful. Living with a few other adults is stressful. I’m tired and sad a lot. We had a hurricane to get through, which my town did very well, luckily. But it did impact my planned trip with friends for this weekend. This weekend, I am headed to a somewhat local beach with friends to recharge and unwind a bit.

Hurricane Michael almost ruined it all, but we were lucky that our house was fine. We won’t have internet or tv, but that is fine. The important part is being with friends and being at the beach. It’s my happy place.

I really need it right now. I go 15 miles on the highway then 5 more miles through town to get my son from college twice a week. This gives me way too much time to think, and I always end up silently crying on the way, tears streaming to my chin. I think about my mom, and my friend Green. I wonder if I could have been a better friend and daughter. If I could have had a chance to say goodbye. But know that it’s too late, and always will be. I think about my mom being so difficult in her later years, being racist, holding grudges. I think about how she was a victim of her stepfather, and how she basically got married and moved halfway across the country just to escape him. About when I was in college, she came to visit me in the dorm because she wanted a taste of the life she never got to have.

I think of all of this as I’m driving. I pull myself together in time to arrive at the college. So it’s just me.

The beach soothes my soul somehow. I need time there, and time alone. I need time to see friends, and go on drives alone near the water. I need to get away and breathe again. To find the rhythm of the sea.

Time in a Bottle

Missing her, and other news

So it’s been awhile, except for the #WhyIDidntReport essay. I wasn’t sure I was going to continue this blog, but here I am. I still may quit, I might not. Who knows?

Yesterday was my mom’s birthday, and no doubt the hardest day since she died. I had no chance to grieve since it was also the day crap decided to rain down on me.

My work sucks. Yesterday I got yet another client to add to my already overloaded schedule. I had such a late day with so much going on, I didn’t get home until more than 12 hours since I left, which is a truly long day. So much shit that I can’t even remember it all. I just know that it took everything I had not to break down before arriving home. But I held it together long enough to get home and my husband was not there for me the way I needed.

You see, my brother was just diagnosed with thyroid cancer. He’s only 38. He is also the only parent to a nine year old girl, since her mom dies when she was 2. That alone is scary, and I’m scared for him.

Yesterday I got a call from my doctor’s office with the results of some blood work I had done. They are concerned about some of my numbers and so are sending me in for additional tests. On my thyroid. Ultrasound, additional blood work.

I’m scared and sad and frustrated and I feel like falling apart, but I have no one to fall apart with.

I know it should be my husband, but it isn’t. I can’t explain it, but he is going through so much himself, and I don’t want to burden him, but he does know about it all.

I hate being a burden. I don’t want to be a big Wendy Whiner, so I’ll whine on here, to you all. Thanks for that.

 

#WhyIDidntReport

My #WhyIDidntReport story is a bit different, but just as important, I hope.

I was 18, a college freshman and away from home and on my own. I was also a virgin. Not because I didn’t like sex, but because I grew up in a very strict family, and it didn’t seem worth the ire of my parents to get involved with a guy.

So I was in a co-ed dorm, with 5 floors f women on top, and 5 floors of men below. I was on lucky number 7.

College life was full of parties, games of quarters (think beer pong), social time. I studied hard, and played hard.

I hadn’t found anyone special, but I had my eye on a certain junior that made me swoon. He was some HOT chocolate.

One Saturday night, a game of quarters was happening on a men’s floor. I knew some people, some were strangers, and my crush was there.

I drank, then drank some more. My guy had to leave for some reason lost to time. After a short time, I decided to leave as well. I headed to the elevator. A guy followed me, saying that he would make sure I got inside okay. I told him I was fine and would see myself up the elevator. We were in the foyer of the elevator area, and I didn’t want him to take me to my room. I told him it was past curfew of when men and women weren’t allowed on each others’ floors, but he kept insisting that he would see me “home”. Drunk as I was, I knew that it wasn’t good, alarm bells were ringing, no one else was around.

I looked around and saw the stairwell.

“Nevermind”, I called out and ran to the stairs. I slammed into the bar and the door flung open. I ran to the stairs and quickly decided that I couldn’t run UP the stairs in my condition. So down I headed, into the men’s domain. I heard the footsteps behind me and knew that he followed. I went down one flight, and could hear him. I ran down another flight and could still hear his footsteps.

I flung open the stairwell door and ran into the men’s hall. I began to bang on every door I got to. A quick bang bang and I would move on. I knew he would be in the hallway soon, but I dared not look back. Behind me I heard a dorm room door open and I turned. A guy poked his head out, and just beyond, I could see my pursuer. “What’s going on”, he asked. My pursuer stopped and ran back into the stairwell.

I didn’t know their names. I could not have picked them out of a line-up, at least not now. Back then, I don’t know.

I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t report. Because “nothing” happened. I wasn’t actually assaulted. I don’t know what he would have done to me if he had caught me, but I know in my soul that it would not have been good. He was NOT concerned about my well-being. I was lucky. I got away BEFORE the attack. But I never told anyone, until last night when I told my husband.

Because “nothing” happened to me.

#WhyIDidntReport

Change is hard

Mother’s Day was pretty hard, just as I thought. I had plenty of family to call and be there, but it wasn’t the same. All but one person wanted to support me, offer their condolence, asked how I was.  At church that morning, I had plenty of people tell me that they were thinking of me. My boss told me the Friday before the weekend, as well. I am blessed that so many are thinking of me at such a tough time. I suppose it will be better another year, but again, I don’t see how. It still hurts.


Life is a weird bird. Just when you think you have things figured out, you get thrown for  a loop. You never know what’s around the corner, and as much as you might try to prepare, sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.

There, I think I put enough old-hat adages in one post. So let me start over. Continue reading Change is hard