Hey, Success, You Sweet Succulent Sensation
I guess, at this point, there's maybe less to post about my husband's children than my sons' father.
I so wish I could share their names. They are not, of course, weird celebrity kind of names. They are names rooted in aspects of history that I resonate with and that I knew before they were born they would resonate with. It is hard to stop myself from sharing their names, but of course I cannot. They have uncommon but normal names, and I have shared with both of them what went into their naming.
I had to fight their father to name them. I suppose it was the beginning of the split he felt with me. He never understood or appreciated that a mother always will choose her children. My former spouse's mother was the neighborhood slut and drug dealer, which I was not given to know until he was settled upon divorce. He took on her characteristics as his own, which I never saw.
I think he's the biggest dickhead in North America, but not for the reasons he was ever afraid of. He had the theoreticall choice of stopping or furthering his family's dynamics. He did not choose cessation.
He chose perpetuation. At my sons' expense. I cannot describe to you my feelings about this.
Last month, my younger sister held a birthday party for one of her sons. She had it on a night my ex had my sons. I carefully coached my ex for some days beforehand. The last detail I shared was he needed to have a gift to bring.
I was not present for the party, I was working. They showed up on time and had a great time. Their father understood, one would think, his role was to drop off and pick up.
Could my ex leave it at that, showing up with my boys and no gift? No, he could not. He confronted my father. "Why won't you talk to me _______?"
"Why would I want to talk to you after what you did to my daughter?" And then, "Once I had a family I always made sure I provided for them. It wouldn't have mattered whether _______ (my mother) and I were together or not. What are you doing?"
And so my ex called my father a piece of shit. "______, you are a piece of shit."
My father turned his shoulder to dickhead, but kept eyes on.
Over Christmas, my father told me t his story. He said, "how could you expect a grease monkey to make it with a doctor?" But I did that, I fell in love with the father of my children.
I had no idea of how cruel he was everyday, how my every action was driven by him. I don't feel strong or weak in admitting that. I did love him, I loved him truely.
I did not understand that his cunt of a mother was always going to be the source of love he most wanted. The more love I gave, the more he hated me. It didn't matter that I trusted him with eveything. Those were things only to be trashed, because his mother let anal perpetrators sleep with him, she couldn't summon up attending a graduation for him.
But my God, when she announced she had lung cancer, ______ became the all out and out Madonna. And that's her controversial place in history.
Now, periodically, when my ex allows himself to forage in the things he discarded, he comes at me with premises that feel designed to make me feel guilty for not responding to them. "Our boys need us!" "I miss our sex!" "The only possibility is love!"
I value marriage. It is a very, very, very painful thing to understand that my heart is closed to their father, forever. He is a cruel person.
Trust is the foundation of all things.
I have felt and I have actually been betrayed my second husband.
There are several differences which have meaning to me. First, my former husband set out to punish me for people I was not in his life, and my inability to discard him as his mother has always done.
And by mainfesting cancer, she cleaved him to her forever. She has madonnna status now. And somehow, because we were married and evidence two children, there is unrefutable evidence we were at one time (well, two to be exact, yes) sexually entertwined with one another for some brief period of time.
There was a miscarriage between the boys. I felt her the most, I knew her name, it was Morgan. Her real name was Morgaine. I loved her, I knew she was dead on the two hour drive to my midwife's place. But then I saw her little still body. That is a time in life where you go on while having been sliced between everything.
My midwife understood. While many practictioners would say, ok, D & C right now, she understood my need to hold Morgaine within my uterus until Morgaine passed, it was days later.
I did force my first husband to dig her out of the toilet, the cramps were forceful. I would not let the ambulence take me to the local hospital until I felt she was expelled. I knew they would not understand. I, at least, did not believe in them. Writing of her makes me cough deeply, deeply.
When there are things within you that must be expelled, you cough. Breathing and coughing are the same currency of life.
I will be shocked if this writing of mine does post.
I write so much, they are all poof, goone. Let's see what happens, eh.
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I too, am confused by your
:?
I too, am confused by your posts. I feel as though I have found your diary and am reading it.
Sorry about your baby girl. Painful, I can only imagine.
I love that, yes, this is my
I love that, yes, this is my diary. As personal, as confusing, as convuluted as a diary might be. I fling my soul out here, raw. It's gross, it's crude, it's offensive, it's crazy, it's what I have. I can write princess and the pee stories, they still occur every day.
I don't do well in other than itimiate ways. I was always inept at small talk. I can talk a true blue streak, but it's not necessarily palatable.
So, a story of princessandthepee. It is one I have written a few times before, but it disappeared into the abyss I thought was simply my own computer ineptness. Selfishly, I am relieved to know it is not just me that encounters technological difficulties in attempting to post.
He is once again turning awawy from me, but I trust him. He can't save anything, although his mental ability to do so surpasses any fuckikng government think tank for any stupid aborted purpose. He goes to sleep, I remain awake, pinging around inside looking for something to see, but there is nothing.
Back to the story. Some months ago, princess contacted my husband. He had been trying to contact her for months, she largely ignored him. She's a little queen of passive aggressive shit. He never succumbs, he never gives into the bullshit, he always maintains the high road with her.
It's been some years now I have had the unwilling duty to reflect back to him the reality of her, her actions. I've felt the snap of it for those same years. It was a godsend to have that bitch move out.
One of the few last holds she has over my husband is the need for her to obtain car insurace on the vehicle she drives. Rather than do this very basic thing, she has taunted my husband with failed promises to do so, but he still utimately chooses to let that smelly cunt waft her way over things rather than listen to me that we need, in everyone's best interest, to retrive that stupid fucking monster truck so she cannot ruin some unknown person(s) life (lives). It's been months she's been driving unlawfully.
This was not even the story I was going to tell. I was going to tell the story of big dumb louie. princess goddess of animal care and concern was ejected by her first roommate. princess spun an interesting story around this. My husband was prone to believe it, to me it made no sense at all. princess said her roommate's father was suddenly called up for duty in Iraq. princess's roommate's father is in his 40's or 50's. He was apparently quite ensconsed in a very different career, but coincidentally, when princess was faced with finding a new living situation, her roommate conveniently disappears from college altogether to rush home and take care of her mother, who is not ailing, because her father has been called to some duty.
Seriously? Then, princess decides that the places to look at living in are ones that do not allow pussies. Princess has two feline pussies. So she tries to foist them on us. big dumb louie was refused outright, on the count of the other cat, my spouse bought the bait hook line and fucker. She was exacting revenge because there had been too many fronts upon which she had not been able to exact her will. She played him, that little cunt bitch.
You know what story she spun? The very saturday night she was moving the last of her cunting things out of the apartment which I believe her former roommate fled because she understood the evil she had lived around, she told my husband that big dumb louie escaped the double doored security apartment building. Somehow, magically, big dumb louie made it from thier old house, to my house, to her apartment with poor little girl roommate. But, strangely, the night of princess's move, that poor pussie plotted and succeeded to bolt through one apartment two and two security doors out into the night.
Princess, I would presume, does not know my story of my cat Cleo, at least I pray not because Cleo is as sacred to me as Ghost is.
When I was doing my undergraduate work, Cleo was whose eyes I always looked to. I remember the heartbreak of a three year high school relationship ending because the same girl enticed the only two boys I seriously dated between junior high and high school. After this girl won the second boyfriend of mine, I remember crumpling by the bushes when I saw her kissing the second boy I cared about. The result of that breakup was my going to the HumaneSociety and seeing what would happen. And that is when Cleo and I saw each other and I was at the door of his cage and he was climbing into my arms, and he was everything to me always after that.
There was a move from one apartment to another during my undergrad where it came time to move Cleo from the one apartment to new one. I trusted that he felt secure enough in my arms, but there were too many things around that frightened him. I'd never restricted Cleo, I trusted him and he trusted me. He lept out of my arms, my parents and I spent hours gently calling and following him amongst the brush. Then he crossed University Avenue, a very busy college street. I stopped, afraid,he might dart back, even though I knew that's not how cats move. I guess, maybe, I began to feel despair. It may sound silly, but my world stopped then and there, with Cleo. He had these huge marble green eyes, this deepness, he had no ordinary cat behaviors. He was a kind hearted lynx, a seeing animal.
My mother and father posted a monetary reward in the city newspaper. Every member of my family and me spent the next ten days combing the immediate miles of my new apartment. When you're an undergrad in a competitive creative writing progam and research based psychology program, you have to show up and perform. I couldn't. We did what people did in those days, took a photograph and printed out word program huge fonts, taped them together and went to Kinko's.
I loved and prayed to every fucking telephone pole, every metal bus post, each bus window and store front I taped Cleo's picture, name, and special sounds he might respond to. I willed everything I have into recovering Cleo.
Ten days into it, when my sisters, my mother and father still walked all the University neighborhoods with me, a cat lady called and left a message. She had pans of cat food in her backyard, and she recognized Cleo from the hundreds of 8x11s we stapled everywhere.
There is a reason I share that.
Fucking princess had the gall to say to her father that big dumb louie escaped, oh so convwenientyly, the night before her move. She had the audacity to tell him, with acid in her voice, "problem solved, right?" Then, the next day, her urge to carry forth whatever stupid image she believes she casts, she said she made flyers of her missing cat and spent hours searching for him. I believe she is truly a bastard girl, she has no base. She knows nothing of Cleo, I had never sharaed him with my husbasnd before her insane little tryst with animal neglect.
Then I have the fortune of seeing her Christmas Day. That's another story.