Thursday, May 11, 2017

Things I Lost in the Divorce

As the rainy days drag by, and I still haven't received the money that my ex-husband owes me, I have begun to ponder all of the things that I've lost since the divorce was finalized.

He showed up at the courthouse, smelling like booze. It was 11 am. The week before I had received countless text messages saying that for what it was worth, he'd quit drinking and felt great. Until the bitter end, he proved himself to be a lying sack of shit.

We signed the papers and he complained loudly about how he'd parked in 30 minute parking and didn't want to get a ticket. He also refused to split the legal costs with me, knowing that if I backed down he could leech even more of my fucking money. It was the best $300 I have ever spent. "You don't need to put the debt in the papers, I'll set up a payment plan for you." And in a grand summation of our relationship, I decided to believe this final lie. With a heavy sigh, I realize now that I spent our four years together as a naive dumbshit.

Aside from the huge chunk of cash I'll never get back, the one thing that will always haunt me is my dog, Mace. The day I decided to leave Jeremy I had to turn my brain off. On the phone with my Dad's girlfriend, she told me everything I needed to do because I was incapable of functioning on my own. "Find a bag. Start putting your clothes in it. Do you have any jewelry? Put that in there too." After I'd packed a few bags full of my puppy's toys and my clothes, he wrenched my keys from my hand, took my dog, locked me out of the house, and stole my car.

I had to say goodbye to my home on the coast that I had created, loved, and nurtured for a year. I had just gotten a chicken brooder and had three baby chicks in our basement. I received a frantic call from my old landlord a few months later saying the chickens were being neglected and she had decided to remove them from the property. I left my favorite house I'd ever lived in, with the enormous kitchen and gas burning stove. I'd return later that summer and I found over 300 beer bottles in the dining room, which was no longer inhabitable. I had just purchased 10 pots and little veggie starts that were flourishing near the large tree in front of our house. I later found the tree partially burned down because he had gotten drunk and left the grill on underneath it. 

I think the reason Mace weighs so heavily on my heart is that a year before I met him, he abandoned a dog. In an apartment he had been evicted from. He left her there to starve. What kind of human does this to an animal? His way of clearing his conscious was to tattoo her name on his knuckles. So noble. And I had to leave my baby with him. My pup horrifically lost a toe nail one morning, bleeding everywhere, and my ex literally locked himself in our bedroom and wouldn't come out. I begged him to help me carry my poor, sweet 75 pound boy to the car, but he refused to leave the room. Once the vet tech trimmed his toenails too short and he cried all night. My ex sat up in bed and punched him as hard as he could. It will haunt me the rest of me life.

I lost everything the day I left him. I was the one who bought every single piece of furniture, artwork, kitchen utensil, tool... literally everything. I abandoned my chickens, my dog, my plants, my home, my job, my life. It did not feel good. It felt like 95% of who I was had just died.

He did horrible, atrocious, despicable things to me. Somehow managing to brainwash and bully me into staying with him. I hope the day I left him was the worst day of his life. Although it was one of the worst of mine, it was ripping off a band aid. I hope his was like pulling out a drain plug.

At the time I thought the hardest things to leave behind were the tangible ones: my dog, my money, chickens, home, big screen TV, etc... but in reality the worst things I lost were the ones I didn't realize I had been missing the whole time. Those parts of your soul that had been hit by a shotgun; small holes you don't realize are there yet riddle your heart like Swiss cheese.

I never had a partner. I was married to a man who told me with alarming frequency that my life was a joke.

Throughout my marriage, my self confidence gradually ebbed away. Every day he would chip it down more. I can't remember once when he told me I was pretty. I can however, count the amount of times I caught him texting women asking for pictures of their tits. Perhaps that's why I've never felt good enough. Or maybe because of all the times he told me that "I deserved it"... for knocking me out when I was drunk because I was "being rude".

I didn't realize how lonely I was. Never have I been more scared in my life, but I didn't know why. Every shred of self confidence, self worth, direction, dignity, and self respect was long gone. My goal every day was to try to make this horrible man happy, who, I'm fairly positive, is incapable of being so. I lost my will to live. I lost my family. I lost my friends. I lost all of this because of him.

But you know the most important things I lost in the divorce?

I lost him.

I lost the person who used to threaten me. Who would tell me he was going to kill himself if I ever left him. I lost my captor, my abuser, my nemesis, my concrete shoes.

During my marriage I lost myself. In my divorce I regained my freedom.

It's taken a while but after a year or so, I've started to remember who the fuck I am. I'm shaking the brain wash off like a dog out of a river. While I still carry a very unhealthy fear of men, I do have a semblance of self confidence. He spent years breaking me. And now, it's all coming back. I'm a funny, fucking delightful person.

I hit rock bottom in Toledo, Oregon. When I hit the rocky bottom of that lake, I waited for a minute and blinked my eyes in the blurry water. It took me a minute or two, but when my eyes adjusted I kicked off the ground and raised my hands for the surface.

 I don't give a fuck about him anymore. And he is the best thing I've ever lost.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

An Open Letter to Jeremy

May 11th was the last time I saw you and I don't miss you anymore.

We went for a hike, and you dropped me off to hang out with my friends, and you told me, "Don't get too drunk. I don't want you talking about me to your friends and letting them convince you to not be with me."

Later that night I found out you had been sleeping with our friend. I will never, ever forgive you for that.

We went for a hike and we had a great time. You didn't want to go to the top because you were too scared. I wanted to, so I did.

You finally made it but complained the whole time. When I went on to the top without you, you nearly lost it.

What a giant metaphor for our time together.

I want to say that I wish I'd never met you. But I don't know if that's true. Before I met you, I was a fucking moron when it came to relationships. I always dated guys that were below me. I dated guys that treated me like shit. That made me pay for everything. I can't think of a time that I have ever gotten flowers for no reason.

You once told me, "You've never deserved flowers."

That might've been the same day you knocked me unconscious. But from what you said, apparently I deserved it.

I wouldn't be the person I am today without you. I now know that I'd rather be alone than with anyone who would treat me the way you did. I now know that I am much, much stronger than I realize.

So in a way I guess I'd like to thank you. For taking all my money and refusing to pay me back. For beating me into the ground. For making me think that I wasn't worth anything. For constantly telling me that my life was a joke.

I would've never realized that I am so, so much greater than you will ever be. Thank you for trying to put me in an early grave, because you made me realize who I am. I am not who I was with you. And I never will be again.

May 11th was the last time I saw you, and I never want to see you again. I never want to speak another word to you. I don't want to know anything about your life. I've never hated and been so grateful to one person. I hate you. But I am the person I am today because of you. So, thank you. Because of you I found my freedom.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

One Year

It's has been one year today since I made the very important decision to leave my husband.
One year since I officially relinquished my title as depressed, abused, drunk, lonely, broken housewife.
It's hard to believe such little time has passed. It feels like it was just yesterday, yet it also feels forever ago.
A year ago on a sunny, cool spring morning in Newport, Oregon my Aunt drove a six hour round trip from Portland to rescue me. That day I felt a state of shock that I could only compare to the few hours after finding out my mom had died. I stayed on the phone the whole time with my dad's amazing girlfriend who coached me through packing what I absolutely needed. I was numb, frantic, and wildly unsure.
When I finally got to Portland my two friends Tess and Scott took me in under their wings, and sheltered me as best they could while encouraging me to fly. I cried and drank and melted down for at least three weeks. Cay visited me with pizza I couldn't eat. Ally whole heartedly supported and listened to me every step of the way. I welcomed everyone publicly into my personal hell.
When I finally started allowing the sun to hit my face, like it hadn't in years, I realized I couldn't just live off my sweet friends forever. And with zero dollars in my bank account, and a crushing debt leftover from a failed marriage, I found a job. My poor, sweet coworkers probably didn't think much of me, just that their newest employee sure did cry a lot in the break room, and man does she eat a lot of those free granola bars.
I stand here today not because I did it on my own. I stand here because of every single one of you. I have never felt such support, love, and genuine care as when I finally moved back to Portland. I could never have found the courage inside me if you all hadn't told me it was there. One year ago I was the worst person I have ever known. For four years my mind and body were twisted into something unrecognizable. I became someone who I'm not. I ignored my family, friends, and myself. Every day is a battle to regain myself, and I blame all of you, my friends and family, for arming me to fight.
So, today I wanted to say thank you. I don't say it enough. Thank you all so much. You've given me the best gift anyone could ask for.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

A Lesson in Rebounding with Douche Bags

"Say it to me. Say it," he spat at me. "Say fuck you and mean it."

We sat at the bar top and he was five tequilas deep. Dive-bar sized shots. "Breakfast" for me was an omelette with cheese and garlic, and his was liquor and Pacifico beer backs. The past few times we had hung out together, he had expressed his distaste in the fact that if he said something rude, in a "joking" manner, that I wouldn't fire back with something equally as rude. "That isn't me," I would tell him.

"I'd fuck any chick in this bar right now," he drunkenly explained to me. "You'd have to be 500 pounds for me to not want to fuck you."

I've known this for a while, but have vehemently denied it. I let people take advantage of me because I have "nice girl" personality. I am desperate for people to like me, and will literally bend over backwards for people if it means they will see me more favorably. So the thought of being outwardly rude or mean to someone turns my stomach, and I find it a near impossible task.

However, I think the point that my rebound was trying to make, albeit in a wildly inappropriate manner, was that I need to stop letting people use me as a doormat. As girls, we are raised to be cordial, to be peaceful, to avoid conflict. But this doesn't mean that you shouldn't stand up for yourself.

Once again, I found myself in a situation with another guy using me for my money, my great ass, and my overwhelming desire to please. Guys like to push to see what they can get away with, and with me- it happens to be a lot. There were many nights he got WAY too drunk and said some pretty vile, demeaning shit to me. What I should have done was said an actual fuck you, and left. To have some shred of self respect. And yet, I found myself in the same pattern as before. Reasoning with myself and making excuses for inexcusable behavior. "I think my threshold for bullshit is abnormally high," I laughed, sadly.

But I shouldn't have been laughing. Looking back I've now realized that I am not ready to date. Falling back into the same patterns as before, my brain lied to my heart with wild abandon, simply for the singular pleasure of feeling desired. It didn't matter that I bought lunch, dinner, gas money for his car, alcohol... literally EVERYTHING in our short time together. My brain was utterly high off the chance to have someone sleep next to me. It didn't matter that he was a lying, mooch of a boy who's "self employed" descriptor on Tinder meant that he grew weed in his basement. My brain made excuses. "Oh he's respectful and doesn't drink that much around me!" I would tell my friends. Lies!

I was dating a boy who was still very clearly in love with his ex wife. They would text each other constantly. I once met up with him and he was drunk as hell with a few of his friends. His phone buzzed and he started laughing. "Hey check this out," he said, and showed me his phone. On it was a picture of a girl posing suggestively.
 "Umm... what is that?"
"I told this chick to send me a sexy picture," he laughed.
"When did you do that?"
"Ten minutes ago," he took the phone back. My heart sank and my face grew hot with jealousy. "It's like, not even sexy!" He said and burst into laughter. Moments later, he received a text from his ex wife. "Ha! It's Stacey! Here, text something back!" I threw the phone back at him and said, "I'm not playing that game," and the girlfriend of his friend just looked at me sadly and nodded in approval. I sat a little straighter and tried to act all cool girl about it, but inside I was dying. Face red with shame that he would do this to me.

After we decided to become official, that we would be girlfriend and boyfriend *giggles*, I asked him if he still had Tinder on his phone. He hesitated, then said, "Yes."
"What? Why?" I asked, heart hitting the floor.
"Because if you and I don't work out I don't want to lose all these girls that will have sex with me."
"Well are you talking to anyone?"
"Yes. But it's not like I'm trying to meet up with anyone," he assured me. I've never felt so sick in my life.

All the signs were there. I didn't start writing this with the intention of making him look bad. I simply started writing little things that happened during our short time together, and this is what came out. I told everyone what a great guy he was and what was he, really? Another fucking shitty guy. A reallyreally shitty one. Little dick mother fucker. 

Thursday, January 14, 2016

A Tribute to Kelly

My sister is a very strong woman. She has had to overcome a lot in her life, and she has always been an inspiration to me. Kelly has been my best friend from the day I was born, and has put up with a hell of a lot from me since then. From calling her bad names when I was in middle school, to putting my foot through her windshield after I discovered hard liquor, I can't believe she'll even still talk to me. And I'm so, so lucky because of that.

Kelly was born three and a half months premature in an age where babies would normally not survive. In and out of hospitals for the beginning of her life, she has probably experienced more pain than most people do for years, if ever. It was a miracle she survived, but she needed to be on Earth. Her light was too bright to be extinguished so soon. 

For years my beautiful sister was made fun of because she was born with too much bone in her face, giving her an elongated appearance. In high school, Shriner's Children's Hospital offered to do a surgery to remove the extra bone. Apparently Kelly's face broke two bone saws because her bones were too strong. Visiting my sister in the hospital, I broke into tears and was scared because the post surgery bandages and images were terrifying. It took a long time for her to heal, but when she did she was even more gorgeous than she was before. 

When Kelly left for college, I felt pretty lost. When we dropped her off, we were all sobbing. It was a scary time for all of us. I really, really missed her. A few years later, our Mother died. We were all out of the house, and it was the first time the four of us had been back in the same house since I left. In a way, though, it made us all closer. Especially my sister and I, who were now calling each other every day for support. Through this exceptionally difficult time, my sister remained there for me at any turn or twist in my growing up. Her steadfast love gave me hope. 

This is the kind of person she is. She now has three of the most awesome kids you could ever meet, and another on the way with her very lucky husband. She went on to become a nurse, and we joke it's because her heart is too large. (But really, it is too large from the steroids they gave her when she was a baby.) Kelly is kind, generous, and my favorite person. She is hilarious. Her love never wavers, even when it probably should. I will probably never understand how she balances her ridiculously crazy life, and I'll forever be in awe of that. I could never express my gratitude for her. She is my favorite sister and my best friend. I love you Kelly. 

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

When Did I Get So Good at Lying?

My least favorite thing for someone to say to me is, "You look great!" with feigned enthusiasm. This means one of two things: either I looked like a real piece of shit before, or you think I'm about to figure out how to drown myself.

While I have learned a lot about myself through this break up, (mainly that I am prone to manipulation, always want to fix things, and put everything and everyone before myself while simultaneously shifting into something others want me to be), I have also become acutely aware that I am an unbelievably good liar.

Growing up with an Italian Catholic Mother, I was raised to not only turn 50 shades of red and stutter if I tried to lie, but also the crushing guilt of a thousand ancestors would deter and traumatize me from further untruths. I took pride in the fact that I could not tell a lie, and if I did, you could read it all over my face. I don't know when the switch happened... in fact I'm sure I uttered the very sentence, "Oh, you can tell when I'm lying," as recently as yesterday. However, at some point I became incapable of distinguishing these white lies from reality.

I lie to just about everyone. If I look back to my past, and really analyze what it is that I am in fact good at lying about, I could pinpoint it to when my Father was being treated for Hepatitis C, with chemo-like symptoms, when I was in high school. Most days I found myself wandering into my poor gym teacher/soccer coaches office in tears, not knowing how to handle my dad's illness. One night for some school function in an auditorium, he stood by my side as a fellow classmates dad asked me how my father was. "He's good," I replied nonchalantly. He walked away and my coach said to me, "Why did you lie?" and I replied, "Because it's not his business."

I maintain, purely to comfort myself, that I lie to people because it's not their business to know the truth... But I think really it's so that I don't have to deal with the truth of my life. If others don't know how fucked everything is then maybe it's not really true. Where I am, who I am, and what I am doing does not seem so bad when I look at it through other people's eyes. And if they don't really know what's going on, poof! Like magic my life can be different.

I lie to just about every single person I know. Sometimes I get confused about which lie I've told to whom. I have to be careful with every thing I say. I get confused when I wake up if my lies are actually reality. Sometimes I wake up really excited, and then it sinks in that I've lied myself into such a position that no one will ever truly know me. A liar feels bad about the truth, and I don't think anyone would accept the person I really am. I don't say that for pity, I say it because it is the truth.

I am not awesome. Recently someone I love dearly told me that I was a mean person. I had come clean about my drinking the week before, and my negative feelings toward myself and how much I hated what I have become. And then... that. See what I mean?

I wish I knew how normal people lived their lives, because I've had this mind numbing secret for so long that I don't know how to function properly. I haven't allowed myself to have feelings, on either side of the spectrum, in too long.

I don't want to lie anymore. It's like the past ten years of my life snuck up and hit me like a freight train these past few months. The guilt and shame of what I've done keeps me awake at night, riddled with anxiety and doubt. But I realize now that it's going to be much easier to let time heal those feelings than to keep drinking and live in a cloud of withdrawals, anxiety, and numbness.

Anyway. Eventually my posts will get more uplifting. At least I hope so.


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Strong Lady

I used to think that strength was an easy thing. After my mother died, I for some reason, was the solid rock while everyone around me melted. It feels now like the only reason I couldn't, wasn't capable of melting, was not because of strength. It was because of weakness.

Every moment, every wave of terror and sadness, is better than the last. I left him and I know that I'm right. I know that I've wanted to do this for a while. And I tried. I fucking. Tried. But, it's hard to uproot your life and start over. It's not something you can easily explain to anyone. Like death, it's one of those times where no one will ever truly understand the sadness. The overwhelming, overwhelming sadness.

Everyone says, "We're so glad you're safe, he was hurting you, you're not who you used to be." But you know what? Fuck that. Fuck that. And you know why I say that? Because I know it's true.

But it doesn't matter.  Saying that I know that. Because I do, but fucking hell... it is hard to make yourself actually believe that it's the truth. You make the most ridiculous excuses... for him, for yourself, for everything. Oh, he only yelled at me because I did something wrong. I did something wrong. I did something wrong?

I come up from upstairs, break open the door and throw myself on the rocks outside because... because I have to. I let out two desperate breaths and spit runs freely from my mouth. I do not notice. All I care about is that I want to go home. Take me the fuck home.

This is not where I belong, this is not where my dog is. But I had to leave him too. Because? Because I wasn't allowed to. If I had been allowed to do or be anything we wouldn't have wound up here. My dog. MY dog. My fucking dog. I hold him as he asked for my keys and I said, "Everything's going to be alright. Mommy loves you. I'm going to be back for you," and he licked my tears, sat in my lap, and let me hold onto him like a goddamn crack addict. I breathe, and it rattles around inside my chest, wondering where it came from and who it is. This breath has no business being here, and it should leave me the fuck alone.

You know what's shitty? It feels worse than my mother dying. I built this life up, and now it's just gone. It's gone now. I loved so hard, and we silently knew it for years....but never admitted it to ourselves. I had the first real conversation with him in years, the day that I finally pulled the trigger. He said, "You haven't been in this for months. Have you?" and I said, "No, I haven't. But you knew that." It dropped like a bombshell, but it felt worse than that. It felt like I had taken a deep gasp in, but it wasn't air I was breathing. It was an overwhelming sadness that seemed to say, "You're alone now. All the fuck alone."

When you have one best friend in life, who has isolated you from all your other friends, you don't think you have anyone to turn to. I lie in this unfamiliar, strange smelling bed and sob hysterically. Why won't anyone just take me home? No one will take me home. I call and call and call. Sometimes he answers and tells me he wants me to come home. That our family misses me. Other times he won't answer... but you know what? Apparently that's ok because he apologizes afterward. I'm so alone I'm so alone I'm so alone.  And then the friends start with their, "You're not alone," nonsense and I think to myself, yes the fuck I am.  It's not you, it's not me, it's not personal... but I really need my best friend right now. But GUESS WHAT?! He's not there, as usual, and yet I keep making excuses for him in my heart.

You make excuses in your heart and to your family. To your friends. You make excuses to legitimize his behavior, and to yourself for still having forgiving feelings. Most of all you try to convince yourself that these feelings you have are fine, that you are on vacation, that you accidentally packed all of your dog's toys and medication because you are silly! and you forgot that he wasn't coming. But flashes of reality hit you about 30 times a day, about how your life is over, and that Maggie... Maggie... As you knew her, is fucking dead. You just don't want to admit it yet. Because admitting it means that you're willing to accept responsibility for being a total fuck up.

Probably the embarrassment and the shame... it's a close second from the crushing loneliness.


Sunday, April 5, 2015

A Fish Named Hitler

I wake up most days and suffer what I like to call "a full body sigh". I am acutely aware that my day is going to slowly drag on, each moment as inconsequential as the last. I like to convince myself that my day job is a cover for my secret life as a highly important, smart, and fit super spy. Similar to the show "Chuck", but subtract the geeky computer shit and add a lot of times getting blamed for genociding tanks of fish.

The alarm wakes me up around 7:45 and my eyeballs protest in two ways: one, that I've only slept 5 hours and two, because I accidentally bought waterproof mascara and am too lazy to figure out how it comes off, adding a new, chunky coat each morning after scraping a lot of it out of my eyes. For some reason, my dreams are always SUPER vivid and I always remember them. Like, every fucking detail. Which is unsettling in so many ways... like when I have sex dreams about disgusting people and/or women,  or disgruntled celebrities are trying to steal my dog in the midst of the apocalypse, and for some reason keep calling him Radar

The drive to work is a habitual silence between the hubby and I, filled with deep sighs and melancholy thoughts, dreaming of days when I was thin and pretty and romping through Central America doing drugs and men with accents.  I pretend that my coffee is really coffee, and not just an elaborate excuse to drink fancy creamers named after candy bars.

The pet shop sits sleepily along the busy high way, behind a second hand shop that sells shitty furniture at absurd prices. I unlock the doors and do a shuffle-sprint to turn off the alarm. Not because I'm worried about the alarm going off, but because as long as the alarm is turned on, the security company can hear inside the store. I was told this after about a week of arming and disarming the thing. When left alone, I talk to myself, like, A LOT. I do not know what exactly I could have said during that week, but I am sure that whoever was listening was disgusted and ashamed of the human race.

So for the first ten minutes or so, I am the dealer of death. The tanks of fish at the store are notorious for having small aquarium heaters short out in the middle of the night and electrocute or cook the fish. It's just sort of a toss up of horrible ways to die for them. It's either that or get sucked into the filters that are way too strong for the size tank they're in.  I unlock the bathroom door and prepare the toilet for the onslaught of bloated corpses. Whatever wholesale fish distributor we use also harbors and sends like, really sick fish.  Like grossly sick. Fungal, bacterial disease... fin rot, bloody gills and open sores.  Sometimes even the whites of their eyes are bloody. 

It's unbelievably horrific. 

The tanks are also incredibly old, one hundred percent mistreated... and put in odd locations. The tanks labeled, "TANK IS AGGRESSIVE!!!" are sitting on the floor, with no lids. One time we got a freshwater eel, and it committed a beautiful suicide from a tank about 5 feet off the ground. This morning, the tank containing the asshole koi and fucking creepy "celestial goldfish" (worth a google) were all floating upside down or laying at the bottom with their eyes and guts eaten out. Oh by the way, they definitely cannibalize each other. So when the goldfish get sucked into the filter, they are stuck, alive and motionless while the rest of them eat their eyes first, and keep ravaging until finally there's just a tiny skeleton just sort of sadly frozen in time. 

I overheard my boss saying, "Some kid must have soaped the tank." This is a thing! If even a drop of soap lands in the water, the tank will die. But like, it's not instant and usually happens overnight. By the time we get to them their eyes are a cloudy bluish, and it stinks a little.

So the doors open and the smiles go on and I go about my day sleep walking through the bullshit. It's kind of like being around the stupidest, meanest people on Earth that also don't know very much about social interaction and don't bathe "that often".  In their daily lives they probably don't have an outlet for their anger and so they take it out on the understandably, VERY uncaring employees. Maybe they have a cheating wife, or a boss that harasses them sexually, I don't know. All I do know is that my face, to many, says, "treat me like I'm garbage, I won't fight back."

So we employees wander throughout the windowless cave from anywhere between 6-10 hours, being assaulted with verbal abuse, or "jokes", as the old men would say. I don't remember how it began,  but one day an employee casually said to me, "Hey, have you seen the fish that looks like Hitler?"

"WHAT?!" I say, at an incredibly inappropriate volume.

How is this just being told to me now???? I think, as drop the purchase I'm ringing up and sprint towards the goldfish tank. I spend five whole minutes scanning through the relatively similar looking goldfish before spotting him. Oddly motionless, a tiny, delicate black mustache graces his weird, top goldfish lip. I gasp in awe, the edges of my vision erupting in sparkles. I am beyond over stimulated as I attempt to forever brand this moment into my memory. So I may tell tales of my glorious Adolph Fishler.

A blip of excitement on my boring days, Hitler survives every day through cunning and will. He evades the swoops of the moldy fish net like a tiny, fish ninja. I smile through the impatient stares and horrible men asking, "Is your shirt made of felt? It is now!" *Reaches to feel shirt* (Maggie evades this by exhibiting the grace and humility of a very scared, averagely out of shape, and ungracefully aging female who's afraid to say no and also confrontation, moving out of the way by a few inches, folding arms, and erupting in nervous laughter.) Simply knowing that my Fish Hitler exists is enough to keep my very irrational brain thoughts from tumbling out of my mouth. Fuck you, old man. I hope you get hit by a car and just as you're getting loaded into an ambulance, your wife calls you to tell you she has old lady crabs. 

Myself and Hitler share an odd camaraderie. We both dream of a better life and hate our current situation. Surrounded by buffoons, we keep swimming knowing that this won't be it, that there must be more than this awful fishbowl. I think probably the only difference is that while I may rise from the situation and go on to make more privileged, bad decisions, I also probably won't be one day bought and fed to turtles.





Sunday, January 11, 2015

I'm 27, Have a Bachelor's Degree, and I Have No Idea What I'm Doing

My eyes fly open every morning as I stare at the same crack on the ceiling, and a hot flash of fear rides my body like a wave. For a moment, my vivid dreams blend with reality and an excited confusion rushes to my cheeks as I imagine reality IS the dream. Then an icy fist clenches my quickly beating heart and whispers hopelessly in my ear, "Your life is a disaster."

It's not yet 9 am, but the crushing realization that life, the life I once dreamed of safe under my parents' roof, won't ever be realized and has hit me back down under the covers like a sock full of dead dreams and used batteries. I used to have sweet, hopeful dreams of a million future Maggie's. First and foremost, to be a famous female professional wrestler. I'd lie on my trampoline, staring at the blue skies and wind rocked trees and imagine the future where I broke boundaries as the first WWF star to firmly say a big fuck you to a boob job.

Ideally, all the future lives are Maggie as a 24 year old with fame, fortune, and just the right touch of charity and compassion. A completely enviable life; one where people ask to make reality TV shows about it, but she doesn't treat it like that. To her it's just normal, she eats her caviar one pound at a time just like everyone else.

I spend an obscene amount of time longing for the past, when the seconds ticked by at the pace of a 3 hour long Sunday fucking Mass. Where every second was the worst second, and you wanted to just fucking fall asleep or something rather then be awake for any more of this motherfucking bullshit. Now I grasp at days like I am trying to hold onto a cloud. Each unexceptional day passes as soon as it came, and I have yet to make the first step onto that ladder to happiness.

It could be that I am one of the millions of grown ass adults who feel like those dreams should just be handed to you. Well, fuck you, I am. You know why? Because I don't know what dream I should do this mythical "work" for. If I had that goal of what I wanted, maybe I wouldn't mind sitting behind a desk for minimum wage, as long as I knew that it would, some day, get better. Where was that moment in life where the cogs click into place and your young, eager footsteps get plopped onto the path to happiness? Somewhere along the way, my ladder forgot it needed a destination, not just to wind up in the sky.

I want to scroll back through each and every one of my life choices like a Choose Your Own Adventure book and determine where I went wrong. In fact, at that precise moment when alcohol became the forbidden fruit that I must have at all costs, I'd go ahead and discreetly remove it. Perhaps then the rest of the book wouldn't seem like a toddler dizzy on full-sugar soda figuring out how to con Mom and Dad into giving her more Halloween candy.

Maybe then college wouldn't have been an after thought to my raging FOMO, and I wouldn't have treated potential relationships more valuable than expensive missed classes. Most likely, one of those classes held the key to my locked future, and now I wallow bleary eyed in the swamp with the rest of the ladders to nowhere, barely registering the other forsaken souls.

So here I sit, in a dark room of a cold house located on the rainy Oregon coast somewhere. Waking up in a cold sweat realizing seven whole years has gone by working in restaurants. When I first became a server at 21, I looked at the older servers and said, out loud and probably drunk, "If I become a lifer, I'll kill myself." After all, I technically had graduated from a very prestigious college, and I was now employed among high school drop outs. And yet, each day that goes by I do not think to myself, "today's the day," or, "let's get motivated," something to that effect. Because I would not know what to make of "the day". Get motivated for what? Today's the day to do...? None of those bullshit motivational speeches actually mean anything. Make changes, find what you love, get up and do something instead of sitting around...  I am 27, and I am completely, utterly, without a doubt, lost.


Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Hey 2014, Go Fuck Yourself

Oh man, have I been waiting to say that. From an early age, I was always very, very superstitious, and fourteen has always been my lucky number. I am 27 years old, and it took this long to realize that is completely false now. This year sucked a big bag of donkey dicks. A big ol' bag. I wouldn't say I'm excited for 2015, per say... more just excited to shake off the dirty hobo stink from 2014.

 I've never had such shitty fucking stuff happen. I am trying hard not to equate it to moving to Newport, but I don't know... I think this city blows. Literally more crap fucking shit has happened to me here than ever in my life. Aaaand I'm pretty over it. Newport is full of drunk fisherman and drunk people. Maybe a restaurant or two are worth checking out. And can we talk about the drama? *shudders* 

In a way I'm almost glad I got let go from my job... After three fucking months of bar managing with the promise of a pay raise to all of a sudden being asked to resign... Really makes you think about your life direction. Almost a year of listening to Newport gossip. This town is fucking strange and awful. I'm a 27 year old bartender. Enough! It feels a bit like being a little kid again and trying to catch someone while running through waves. No matter how hard you think you're running, you are really only going about half the speed or less than those on dry land.

I think it is definitely 'get your shit together' o'clock.