Hello Mandee,

Thanks,
Mom

______________________________________________________________________________

Dear Janie,

I wish you knew how hard you make things on me.  My first instinct is to just let it go and move on. To call and talk to you, to give in.  But when I think about doing that, it’s not pride that stops me…fear and gut instinct instead.  I know it’ll be good for the first couple of months, and after that it’ll go back to everything it ever was. Your Jealousy of Katy, your issues with how I raise my kids. Your judgments, your lies, you inability to take responsibility for your actions.

You told me that I needed to let things go, but…I can’t. I can’t be around you, and let go of what you did and what you allowed to happen to me. I wish I was a better person than that. I wish I had the ability to just take a deep breath and push it all away. But I don’t. I’m not that strong. I’m not that person.  I’m not that forgiving.  I’m not whole enough to not recognize the gaping reality of what my life was when you were actively a part of it.  It’s sad, isn’t it?  That I can’t move forward with you.  That I can’t ignore your badgering and your shit.

But trying to get to me by way of my kids is just wrong.  Trying to use my children against me as a way to open up and talk to you again?  That’s really low class.  What was that you said? “I don’t know how long you plan on not talking to me but I would like to at least be able to communicate with Jack and Vaiyanen.” How much communicating do you really think you’ll be doing with a 5 and 7 year old child?  The same amount of communicating you did with me when I was 5 and 7?  Which was…what?  Nothing.  You can’t just buy my childrens’ affections.  I won’t allow that.  You’re a danger to me, a danger to my mental stability and my well being.  And if you’re dangerous to me, a woman who can fight back…how much of a danger do you think you can be to my babies?

They don’t need you in their lives.  And either do I.  And it hurts, god damn you, it hurts and I hate you for it.  Why can’t you just give up, and walk away?  Why can’t you just throw your hands up in the air and leave me alone?  Everyone tells me to just let it go, just ignore it. You don’t have control over me, you can’t hurt me anymore.  But you know what?  What you did 18 years ago, what you did 15 years ago, 10 years ago, 8 years ago, 7 years ago…last year.  It’s there. It’s bright and vibrant and it wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

You fucked me up. In a big way.  And I’m just supposed to tip my head, close my eyes and bury all of it.  Just supposed to let it go?  I’m sorry, but I’m fucking tired of hearing those three words. Let.it.go.  Fuck you. What have you ever let go in your entire life? You’re so miserable, you even make up stories so you can continue being pissed off and righteous.  Well, I’m sorry, but I see right through that.  Right through you. Like glass.

I don’t want your husband to be a part of my life, I don’t want your mother to be a part of my life, or your siblings.  We’re better off without you. We’re safer, happier and healthier.  I’m tired of forgiving you. I’m tired of going back when you sound apologetic. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of the constant control you have, even when you’re not here. You make me….tired.

You can’t be a part of this, of my son or my daughter or myself.

Too late,

Amanda

-From Stephen in my Myspace-
I want to start off by saying I am sorry. There is really no excuse. In the past I have been an asshole to you. Not outright…but in what i did..or really didn’t do.

you were always there to fall back to, when I needed an ego boost, I always relied on that. Perhaps not wanting that knowing feeling that someone cared.

But it wasn’t right. I strung you along, not outright, but I believe that in my small actions I kept you on the line to be my saftety net.

I do not expect you to forgive me, though I would hope that you do. I just wanted to say I am sorry, I was not right in doing that, you deserved so much better from a friend then what I gave you.

I am sorry Fayne…..truely.

__________________________

Stephen,

I never asked for your apology. I never asked for anything more than what you told me you’d give me, again…and again…and again.  I never wanted anything more than to be those things to you, that you eluded I would.  You lied, and you hurt me, and now I’m supposed to forgive you right? That’s the way it goes? I’m just supposed to shrug my shoulders and let it go.

And I will.

You’re getting married.  Good for you. I wish I had it in me to be happy for you. I wish I had it in me to give you that resolution to the pain you caused me.  I wish I could smile at you and hug you and tell you congratulations, but…I can’t.  I don’t know how to be happy at this point, let alone be happy for a man that made a million promises that he never intended on keeping.  It’s nice to know, that you realize you used me.  It’s nice to know, that you realize you kept me strung around you. It’s nice to know, that now that -your- life gets to start over, and -you- have the things that you want out of it, that you can finally admit to your shit.  That you can -finally- see and own up to the fact that you fucking tortured my heart.

I was honest with you. I loved you. I waited for you. I played the game. And when I stopped, when I stepped away, when I walked, when I finally had enough…when I finally fucking gave up….

Was I just not pretty enough, Stephen? You used to tell me that you loved counting the freckles on my face….and that you loved my eyes and my hair.   You talked about how you wanted to touch me, but you never did.  I was pretty enough to keep you interested, but….not…thin enough? Tall enough? Perfect enough? I didn’t cry enough? I wasn’t soft enough? I didn’t rely on you enough? Do you even know? Was I just there to stroke your ego?

You fucking hurt me. You twisted shit around and you hurt me, and it still burns.  It still brings tears to my eyes. I was so foolish to actually believe that you loved me. That you could ever love me.  Good enough to satiate, but never fucking good enough for anything more.  Good enough to make promises to, and good enough to break down, but not fucking good enough to hold, or to kiss, or to love.  Yes, you used me. Yes, you strung me along.  But I’m not going to tell you any of this.  What good is it going to do me? None. No good. And it won’t make your life any easier to know the truth.  So when I reply to my myspace, I’ll tell you that it’s okay. That I understand. The past is the past. I’ll lie to you, and tell you that I’ve been over it for a long time now, and I wish you nothing but the best.  I’ll tell you Congratulations, and I’ll choke on every word I type.

I’ll lie again…to satiate you.  Because in the end, you’ve proved to me for nearly 5 years now, that is all I’m good for.

Fayne

http://caffertyfile.blogs.cnn.com/2009/04/16/should-overweight-passengers-pay-for-2-seats-on-airplanes/

First of all, let me just whip out a first and forefront..”fuck you”.  People are genetically challenged in many, many different ways. And for all you fuckers out there that think obese means 400+ lbs, let me assure you that according to statistics, anyone 20 lbs or more over weight is technically considered obese.

That’s right, your beer gut that would shave at least 60lbs off of the front of your body makes you obese. That little extra ’saddle bag’ from the twins? Obese.  You’re big in the hips, but small in the waist (we call that pear shape), these people are considering you obese.

I recently went on a flight from DFW to PA.  First of all, it’s the smallest jet I’ve ever been on, and yes I am a big girl. Anyone who reads my journal knows this.  Do you get to know my weight? No fuckers, don’t even ask.  But do know that I come from a long line of over weight people, men and women included.  Part of it is learned eating habits, part of it is shit for a metabolism.  The man sitting next to me was large, and I was large and it was a two seat expidition.

Yes, I asked him if I could have the arm rest up between us, and he complied very nicely.  However, if you turned us side to side and looked at us that way, he was bigger than I was, all of his weight was just in the front of his body, where as mine has spread to my ass and hips.  So yes, the fucking arm rest was irritating.  But beyond that, I am very broad across the chest and shoulders, even at my most slim size 12/14, I had huge shoulders.  It’s the lovely part of being German/Irish.  We’re built like work horses and able to take on a lot of shit.

Was he within his rights to ask for a different seat? Should I have paid for two seats?  I have no idea.  But I can tell you, that he wasn’t rude, he didn’t smell bad, I wasn’t rude and I didn’t smell bad. In fact, I slept most of my flight and we barely touched each other.

When did being fat automatically mean that you’re incapable of basic motor function? When did being fat mean you’re not allowed to have feelings or emotions? When did being fat mean that other people are allowed to degrade you and treat you as if you’re less of a person because they’re in the single digits numbers on their pant sizes?

I am sick and fucking tired of these rhiteous, dick head mother fuckers, thinking it’s all right to degrade and mistreat people. Is it uncomfortable when you’re squashed up against someone on a plane? Yes, yes it is.  Make the fucking seats a little bigger.  I know plenty of people who aren’t really ‘over weight’ at all, that have issues in those seats. Men with large shoulders, women with booty.  And what about the scremaing infants and the people behind you who are constantly readjusting and kicking your seat? Should people who are too tall and legs too long, be forced to buy the seat in front of them as well, in order to properly fit?

You want to fucking weigh me and my luggage? Well I want you to take the Jolly Green Giant’s fucking inseam and charge him for every inch past 34″.  Because no one can sit with their knees up to their ears without encroaching on the person’s space next to them or in front of them. It’s fucking impossible.

Look at the comments on the topic when you click on the link.  I mean, my god, when did having a little compassion and remember that fat people are fucking people too, stop existing all together.  If you cant’ fit in your seat, yes, maybe you should purchase an extra ticket. As a fat girl, I’m down with an extra seat, it means I’m more comfortable, means I can stretch out, and it means I don’t have to share my shoulder space with anyone.  But charge us by the pound?

Screw you! Who the hell do you think you are to make those kind of comments about someone who feels, thinks, breathes, hurts and loves just the same as you do?  Are you teeth perfect? Do you have 20/20 vision? Can you put together a sentence with proper order and grammar? Can you type 130 wpm?  Is your hair thinning? Do you have cellulite? How bout a double chin?  Do you wear dockers or walmart trousers?  Are you able to reproduce? Are you gay? Are you a republican? Are you fat? Are you Fat? You are Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat…and now you get to be treated like you’re some fucking circus freak.

Holy…shit.

Have a nice fucking day assholes.

Do you ever just stare at yourself in the mirror and not recognize who’s looking back at you anymore?  It’s not the new, tiny worry lines forming at the corners of my mouth, or the beginnings of crows feet under my eyes.  Its the truth staring right back at me.  A truth that I haven’t been able to see almost all of my life.  I always said if I could be better that I would work toward that change, but I’m not sure if I have the will anymore.  There’s a tiny flicker of heat somewhere in me, I can feel it once in a while urging me to strike out, to push against the walls that keep closing in, to fight against these feelings.

I’m afraid of failing, but when I look back, that’s all I see.  I see an entire life of failures, my own personal failures.  I have two things in this life worth living for, and they’re the same two things that I’m clawing to get away from.  I guess every parent needs a break.  I need a break.  I’m not the invincable person I thought I was 10 years ago…8 years ago…3 years ago.  I have a multitude of psychological issues that have to be worked out in order for me to move forward in my life, but I’m not sure that I am capable of facing them.  All I know, is that I don’t want my children to think of me, the way that I think of my mother.

I don’t want to use the cop out “I did the best I could”, because if I -always- did the best I could, then I certainly wouldn’t be where I am right now.  If I had used sound judgement, if I hadn’t been so worried about being loved and learned to love myself a little more, I would be well out of college with a Master’s degree and moving forward with my life, with my career.  How many more mistakes can I make until everyone’s pleased? How much more can I give of myself until everyone else is satisfied, and when they’re all happy with me, am I going to even know who I am?

I pass judgement on other people, perhaps that’s why I’m afraid they pass judgement on me.  I’m defensive because I’m used to raking other’s over the coals, and I think I’m just waiting for my turn.  I don’t know how to face up to my insecurities, I don’t know how to make them go away and I certainly don’t know how to stop hiding behind them.  I’m not strong.  My sword isn’t sharp anymore, and my shield has been cracked, I don’t even know if I have the strength to lift them back up…let alone the inclination.

I feel everything wrong.  I can’t read people anymore, my judgement is clouded by my own frustrations and anger…and I take everything personally.  I’m always ready for a fight…I’m always doom and gloom.  Why can’t I just take a breath and not care?  Why can’t I let things go? Why…can’t I even answer my own questions? The Busbar helps me with the anxiety attacks, they’re not as severe as they used to be, and now when I remember things…now when I dream….I don’t wake up in cold sweats, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.  Every day I question myself, my worth, my ability as a parent.  I hate questioning myself, but at least I do it with the hopes of being a better person, right? That’s got to count as something…fuck…it’s got to count as something or I’m slowly driving myself crazy for nothing.

It’s hard having your faults pointed out to you, I’m just as much a receiver as I am a giver in this area.  You’d think with as much as I hate it, I’d stop doing it to other people…some habits die hard.  Everyone’s life is difficult, everyone deals with situations differently, and I’m not any better than anyone else in that respect, am I?  If my life was a movie, I wouldn’t even know how to categorize it…Drama probably.  I’m just as much to blame for the way I turned out, as my mother.  And she’s just as much to blame for the way her life turned out, as her mother is and so on and so forth.  Will Vaiyanen blame me too? Will she look at me when she’s a young woman and tell her friends how much she respects and admires me, or will she have the same horror stories to tell her friends as I do?

I feel lost…everything is dark…and cold…oddly and unmistakably familiar, and I’ve lost the path I was on.  When I look around, when I realize I’ve made my own path, I know that the road I’ve chose to travel is no one’s fault but my own, and it’s just another burden that I have to bear.  It’s not easy admitting that I screwed myself up.  I stepped on that path of self destruction at 18 years old and I haven’t detoured off of it one time.  I just keep barreling through it, waving my martyr flag and pretending that I have a valid reason or excuse for allowing myself to hurt and to be hurt.

I don’t want a diagnosis, but I don’t want to be who I am anymore.  And worse than that, I know that if my Mother read this right now, she wouldn’t feel responsible…she would feel smug, probably happy that I’m as miserable as she is.  But it would all come from the hurt and the truth that she’s kept hidden for so long.  Because she’s always the victim.  That’s the difference between she and I, I don’t want to be the victim and she thrives on the attention she gets from it. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why she keeps eating, because at least if she’s big…it’s some kind of attention, a segway into a conversation with a stranger in a bar, or a grocery store…to garner sympathy for a life she readily fucked up all by herself.

Just like me, she chose what path she took, but unlike me…she doesn’t want to change it, she sits and waits for everyone around her to change in order to satiate her need to be right…even if she knows that she isn’t.  I don’t think her head ever progressed past 16.  I know I should move on from my mother, but Jesus, she’s supposed to be my mom.  She was a single parent, she’s supposed to understanding and supportive, not judgemental, after all…isn’t it every parents wish that their children are better than they are?

That’s my wish…

I don’t know why I crave a relationship with such a broken person.  I guess I don’t want to be her, I guess I hold out hope that she’ll change and love me for who I am, instead of who she wants me to be.  I don’t even know if she’s capable of that much.  I don’t even know why I’m writing about her…I don’t know why I’m giving her this much power over my life, my heart or my thoughts.  I always thought she’d be on my side, in one way or another, but she’s just as sneaky and underhanded as the rest of my blood relatives.  I feel like…I don’t know how to be happy.

When I look back, I have a few brief glimpses of happiness, but they’re so brief…fleeting.  Like cupping water in your hands, only to watch it slowly drain out between your fingers…no matter how I try to hold onto it…I just can’t.  I’m raw  and open…exposed…I detest feeling this vulnerable.

I detest feeling weak.

Fayne

Hi, I know it’s been a really long time since my last post, but sometimes there are things that even I don’t want to admit out loud, let alone post in a blog.  I’m not apologizing, it’s my blog and I don’t have play nice if I don’t want to.  So here’s a list of my pet peeves, and I’m sure to add to them as time goes on.

1. Don’t fucking lie to me.  Tell me the truth.  I have a lot more respect for you if you’re brave enough to fucking tell me the truth, than I will be if you fucking lie.  See I get these gut instincts that normally tell me a lot more than most realize, and I know you’re fucking lying anyway and that just pisses me off more.  Omitting the truth, is the same as lying…fucker.
2. If you’re going to do it, do it the right way the first time or don’t do it at all. I hate coming up behind people and cleaning up your fucking mess. 
3. No one is right all of the time, not even you.  So fuck off.
4. Don’t be a selfish asshole.  Not everything revolves around you, get over it.  Other people’s emotions are just as fucking important as yours.
5. Just because you have a cute ass in comparison to the 10 year old boy’s body you’re sporting, doesn’t mean you’re smarter, prettier or worth more than I or any of my bigger sisters. Don’t forget bitch, you’re break in half-able.
6. Don’t you fucking dare cop attitude with me and then be offended when I give it back. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out.
7. Don’t bitch about the shit in your life to me, if you’re not willing to change it.  Because I get tired of hearing the same shit, over and over again.
8. Grow a set.  Stop being a pandering pussy.
9. Stand by your words, but remember that there’s a chance you may be proven wrong and you may want to change your mind later.  The response by others will be far more amiable if you don’t treat them like a bunch of stupid mother fuckers and then have to apologize later for flapping your jaws like a god damn wind tunnel.
10. No, stupid, you can’t be my fucking friend. You’re a liar, a user, a fucking head case and your stupid cunt wife, that you see fit to stay married to, called fucking CPS on me. ON ME! I don’t want to be nice to you. You’re an ass hat. I can’t believe you fucking married that ugly, slope browed, redneck, trailer trash, can’t put a fucking sentence together to save her fucking life, skeezey ass cunt…over me.  Yes it’s been over 5 years and NO I don’t fucking forgive you for your bullshit.  Yes, I’m still fucking angry.  You tell me when $156 a month raises a child and I’ll fucking show you that I’m really a size fucking six and I’ve been wearing a fat suit all these fucking years. You fucking retard.  Your fucking best isn’t fucking good enough, and it’s a fucking damn ass shame that you didn’t blow the back of your fucking head off.  At least then, Jacksyn would receive survivor benefits instead of waiting for your lame ass to get fired from your fucking minimum wage bullshit job.  And you made ugly fucking babies with her. Ugly my friend. Your daughters are horrifying to look at. I can only imagine they’ll have their mother’s retard intuition and capability to only spread their thighs and pray to get pregnant by a loser that reminds them of their fucking Daddy.
11.  Don’t be egotistical enough to ask me if any of this pertains to you, most likely it doesn’t but there’s a good fucking chance it does too and I really don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. It’s my blog, I’ll bitch if I want to.

I’m a pro and knowing when shit is getting bad, disintegrating, or just going in a direction I don’t want it to go..I’m a pro at giving advice about these things as well, but for the life of me, I’m fucking retarded as shit about taking my own advice.

Found out today that Stephen has a new girlfriend, proclaiming her the love of his life. For the last two years, he’s made promises to me, for the last two years he’s done nothing but talk a big game, making promises, offering me exactly what I wanted to hear, and never delivering. I’ve seen him go through two girlfriends and a multitude of women in the last two years, and every time something stops working for him, he comes back.

Well, not anymore.

I’m not going to rant, or rave, I’m not going to cry or throw anything. I’m just going to take my own advice, and walk the fuck away.

Bye Stephen, I’d like to say that knowing you has improved my life somehow, but now I realize that you were just a pipe dream. Self indulgent and hypocritical. When it doesn’t work out this time. Don’t call. I’m done caring and catering to your ego.

Fayne

I wouldn’t say that my life has been long, but I have lived a long life.  Today is my 27^th birthday, and I don’t feel any older; at least not physically.  But I’ve found myself reflecting on my life and the decisions that I’ve made which have put me in the place I am today.

And right now, instead of focusing on my mother, or my biological family, I choose to focus on my past relationships and what I learned from each of them. 

So, in chronological order…we have….

Bobby – My son’s father.  I met Bobby on the internet when I was 16 years old through a Gorean Roleplay chat that my sister Rachel introduced me to.  He was brooding and dark and mysterious and he had this way of capturing me.  I loved him, and for 2 years, most of it was in silence. The day I told him, was the day that he told me goodbye. I’ve never had my heart broken by one person so many times in my life as I have with Bobby.

This would go on for several years…and though I love him still, I’ve learned that love evolves and changes.

Marni – I miss her sometimes, and I fell in love with her completely by accident.  I kissed her by accident, I wanted her by accident, I touched her and felt her and tasted her…by accident.  She held me afloat in dark waters, shielded me from pain and hurt, and loved me.  I lost her. It was my own fault. And when I found her again, nothing that we were remained.  She’d turned what we had into something ugly, and dirty and she was embarrassed to be loved by me.  I haven’t spoken with Marni since January of 2002.

I still love you.

Michael – My first Master. I was his first slave.  An 18 year old girl that he would tote on his arm as if she were his shiny new penny, and though inside somewhere I knew it was shallow, I loved him.  I wanted to be the slave he needed, but he wanted less than I could give, and more than I had in me. He wanted parts of me that I had yet to discover, but he didn’t want to work to uncover any of them. I left him too, but his wife ruined it, not me.

Byron – Father figure in some ways, frightened me to the point of trembling with a cool look from those chocolate brown eyes.  Where Michael was fun and young, Byron was always in control, had this amazing way of making me feel beautiful even as he kept me low at his feet.  No one in my entire life ever held me as I wept, like Byron.  Married and happy now, living a lifestyle that I cannot touch anymore.

I will always admire and love you, My Teacher…my one true Master.

Chris – You made me feel dark and devious, giddy and warm, sensual and everything a woman wanted to feel, in just…one kiss.  Desperate to taste you and feel you, never getting all of it, and just teased.  I remember the night we swapped underwear in the car, drunk and on the way back to my apartment after a party.  Mine were so much cuter than yours.  Who wears plain white boxers anyway? Heh. 

It hurts that you don’t remember the things you made me feel, but I don’t know if I ever really told you. Perhaps I just expected you to know.

John – Insecure, mean….I loved you, because you wouldn’t love me back.  I loved you, because I was so used to being abused, and you gave that back to me, that I thought it was all I deserved. I kept doing it wrong, it was all my fault…all my fault until I realized…it wasn’t.  I said goodbye to you twice. And though I loved you then, I have nothing left in my heart for you now.

I wish you peace.

Leland – My Daughter’s Father. I never loved you, you were just someone to pre-occupy my time. Oh, I thought I did…but I know now that it wasn’t love, but desperation that kept me close to you.  I have nothing left to say.  Everyone makes mistakes, thank god I have a beautiful daughter to benefit from that one.

Dustin – You made me feel like I could fly, beautiful and secretive and wonderful.  It was a terrible situation I should have never allowed my self to get into…all…three…times.  I won’t lie…sex with you…was a religious experience, but it wasn’t worth the rest of the shit that came with it, not even close.  You weren’t a very good kisser.

Jarod – I love you still, in my own way, thought you’re a complete, self absorbed, loathing bastard at times.  I know your heart, and I wish you’d stop making yourself miserable.  I kept our secret from your sister for 2 years and I told her last summer.  She wasn’t as mad as I thought she would be.  You were wrong.  I could have loved you openly and I never got that chance.

Stephen – I love you now, in my own way I suppose.  We’ve spent the last two years teasing each other, but your teasing was far more cruel than mine.  I’m everything in life that you want and you need, but I’m too much reality and you’re to unwilling to give up the life of bachelor-hood.  It’s a shame, really…we’ll just keep pretending until one of us is married. It can’t go one forever.

Peter – You confused me, I thought you cared more than you did, and at times I thought you cared less than you do.  Things have changed, you’ve changed, your life and your needs from when we first became close.  But I miss your arms around me, and the brush of your whiskers at the back of my neck when we sleep.  I miss laughing and teasing, and I miss the looks…

I wish you weren’t such a flake.

Grant – I never loved you, but I could see myself falling for you the moment your eyes caught mine.  And your kiss, will be the one that burns in my mind, and lights my way through the dark for years to come.  That is the kiss, I will compare every kiss to for the rest of my life.

That’s it….and I look back and I realize that my life has been full of emotional highs and plummeting lows.  I’ve loved, and I’ve been loved, and life has been good far more than I allowed myself to accept.  Were they fairytales? No.  Were they perfect? Nothing ever is.  But for a reflection on the past…

Not too bad….

Fayne

So is this what you plan on doing, just blowing me off like this.  I would like for you to tell me what did I do to you????????????????????????????.  Thank you for the Birthday card and Mother’s day card.  I really look forward to them every year from you.  Oh, thats right, I am the last one on your list.  Well I will tell you that you will regret this one of these days.  The next move is yours.

Your Mother

Dear Egg Donor,

Yes, this is exactly what I plan on doing, just blowing you off.  Isn’t it just driving your crazy? Like a pin prick in your skin, poking you over and over and over again?  I’m laughing at your predictability; I want you to know that.  You have no idea what to do with yourself when someone won’t fight with you, do you? You have no idea how to handle life, when someone isn’t giving you a chance to yell at them, do you?

Oh, I never thought having this much control over you could be so fun, look what I’ve been missing out on my entire life!  You spent the better half of my childhood blowing me off; I guess turnabout is fair fucking play, isn’t it?  Don’t like the cold shoulder? Good, I hope it hurts; in fact I’m glad it hurts.  I don’t feel remorse for removing myself from the situation. I don’t feel sad because I don’t have a mother who I never had in the first place. I don’t feel guilty because you’re feeling left out of my life. Sorry, guess I’m just a cold hearted bitch, or maybe I’m just tired of your fucking mouth and your bullshit?

Maybe I’m just tired of your double-fucking-standards and your pity me, pathetic, fuck you tactics to try and win something back that never existed in the first place.  Let’s be frank with each other.  You don’t like me, I don’t like you, my children don’t like you and the only reason you’re emailing me is to try and regain your foothold of control in the relationship.  Well guess what?  I’ve taken away all of your control, and you can email me as many times as you want, and I’ll just continue to ignore them, again…and again…and again.  And perhaps one day you’ll realize and accept that I just don’t need your drama, your hate and your anger as a part of my and my children’s lives.  In fact, not only do I not need it, but I refuse to allow it in.

Your poison, your whole bloodline is poison, no wonder my dad got out when he could, you’re fucking crazy the lot of you.  I’ve –just- started getting myself under control, -just- started settling out my life and turning it into what I want it to be and I will be damned if you’re going to come back in with your disapproving frown and your 8^th grade education and tell me that I’m not doing it your way.  Obviously, your way was the wrong way.  Take a nice long look around at yourself, your life and your husband. You’re miserable, your life is unhappy, your only child doesn’t speak to you and you have no contact with your grandchildren.

You’re worthless because you choose to be, and I don’t associate with worthless, unintelligent trailer trash.  So I guess that rules you and the rest of those white trash bastards right out, doesn’t it?

Do you lie in bed and cry at night?  Good.

Do you look at my pictures and become sad? Good.

Does it hurt like a knife in your heart, knowing that you mean so little to me that I can discard you like a piece of trash? Good.

Now you’re getting a fucking taste of what you fucking did to me.

Have a nice life,

Fayne

PS.  Your husband smokes pot behind your back. Second shelf of the pump house on the left hand side as you walk in. If you’d waddle your fat ass away from the couch long enough to look around you might actually see it.

Well, I’ve decided that it’s time to re-shape myself.  For those of you who don’t know, which I don’t is anyone, I’ve started taking Belly Dancing Lessons with Isis.  I love it. I love the dancing, the drums call to me, the music calls to me. I love moving and dancing, it just feels like it’s always been a part of my soul.

Now, despite the fact that I’m a big girl, I’m pretty good at the dancing, and honestly, I love it.  However, the issue that I’m having is simple. My self image is just to the point that I can’t hide it from myself anymore.  I’m too big for my own comfort.  In fact, I’ve always been too big for my own comfort.  I find myself making excuses for my size; my thyroid is bad (which I’ve just started medication for), I had two children in two years (I was fat before I had the kids), I’m big boned (which is true, but there are a lot of healthily sized big boned people out there).  But the biggest for me, no pun intended, is “It runs in my family”.  Which, it does.  However, I don’t want to be part of that family anymore.

I don’t want to be related to them, I don’t want to look like them, I don’t want to sound, or feel or behave like any of them.  I’ve come to terms with that fact that I have an eating disorder.  I can go days and days without barely eating a thing, and when I do…it doesn’t stay down.  It doesn’t stay down, because I’ve got my head wrapped so tightly around the idea that I’m just going to get bigger and bigger that my stomach turns and I’m running for the bathroom to pray to the porcelain goddess.  I remember my mom doing that, eating dinner, a moderate amount, and then disappearing in the bathroom.  I could hear her vomiting, and there was always proof even after the initial flush.  I would knock on the door, worried and ask “Mom, are you all right?” and in a strangled voice, she’d respond..”Yeah, I’m fine.”

I knew what she was doing, though we never talked about it. 

I don’t want this to be a memory for my kids.  Something has to give, I have to change. I have to start thinking about my future, my life, my body, my health, my family.  All of it.  I have to start being conscious of myself.  I know that part of this comes from not thinking that I’m worth the attention to myself, part of it comes from being lazy.

Well, not anymore.  I’m done.  I’m done being fat and unhealthy.  If I’m going to be a big girl, then so be it, but I’m going to be a healthy big girl from now on.  No more binge eating, no more vomiting, no more bad food decisions. And no more “Oh well, this is just the way I am..”.  No more being lonely.  Even in a room full of people (Like at Belly dance class), I can feel alone and the center of attention at all times.  I hate feeling like there’s a spot light on me. I’m so aware of every flat, every lump, every roll, every bit of fat…I’m done. 

I certainly can’t battle myself on this anymore.  My back is hurting, my knees are starting to ache, my shoulder hurts more often…I’m tired, excessively frustrated and I find that I’m fighting these bouts of depression.  I’m going to get healthy again.  I have no notions to be a size 6, but I’m at least going to get to a point to where I feel comfortable in a Belly Dancing outfit.  And considering the fact that I was comfortable with my body, completely, at a size sixteen, I think that a size 12 is a good goal to have.

So it starts today.  I’m currently in a 24 right now, top, bottom, all around. I want to be in a 12, which is half of my own size, by the time I leave for WA next year.  That means I have about 12 months to drop it.  That’s one pant size a month.  I can do this.  I am one of the most stubborn people I know, why can’t I be stubborn about losing this weight? 

I’m going to start looking at life, and food differently.  I’m going to start working on my self image to improve my own self esteem, to learn that I can be a person even if I’m heavy, and still move forward with my life. 

I’m done being angry at myself.

Miss Fayne