Fucking bitter resentment. I am supposed to be all about Zen, calm, fucking smooth, relaxing and somewhat pleasurable contentment. Right?
Okay, so here's the deal. My dad, secret drug addict, abuser, terrifying man who later benefited from the invention of Prozac and became #1 Team Grandfather to my son's baseball team. They provided him a reason for living and he provided them with countless blow pops, licorice sticks and whatever else they requested after a big win. That was my dad. My life was but a concession.
Mom - depressed, not available, now dead.
Oldest brother - dead.
Middle brother - dead to me.
Youngest brother - dead.
First husband - in prison.
Second husband - doing very well, thank God I had the strength to set him free.
Third husband - in a federal satellite camp (could be called prison) but my kids tend to refer to him as "away".
When my mom died in 2007 of depression, masked as breast cancer (because you truly cannot have a lump in your breast that size and not know it might be an issue) left everything in her estate to my middle brother because she knew he might not be far from death and she wanted him to always have a place to live. She spent her life keeping my drug addicted brothers off the streets so of course, she naturally chose to keep him, the last of the three, in a safe harbor throughout her death. It was easy for her, "my daughter has always provided for herself, so she most certainly always will".
When my ex-husband went to his country club, a/k/a prison camp last year, there were no provisions made as to how I was going to make ends meet as a full time mom. Nobody to help with childcare. Three kids, a full time job, a house. I was barely able to keep my nose above the water as a 50% joint custody mom; yet, it was easy for him to see, "she has always provided for us when I didn't hold a job or spent us into debt or relied on her to pay all the kids expenses even after we were divorced, and she most certainly always will".
As I write this, I am approaching the fifth month of being a full time working, full time single mom and I fucking hate every single word of this post typed thus far, for it reeks of pity. I have been swirling about in a cauldron of evil consisting of: Hate, Resentment, Entitlement, Hair of the Dog, Bitterness, Red Dirt vs.White Snow, Shaved Spirit of the Innocent, Red Wine vs. White Wine or worse yet, no Whine at all. And it comes to me. I want to move back to Oklahoma because it's not supposed to snow in late March. Oh and also......
Duh. These are your lessons you dumb shit. Since when did you ever feel sorry for yourself? Get the fuck up and manifest this anger into your destiny. I gave it to you for a reason. You only do well, when you are pressed, pressured or pissed. Now you are all P's to the three and I am sitting here, laughing my ass off, waiting to see how you swat at this ridiculous hornets nest I save for the only those I love the most.
My kid's dad recently told them God only punishes those he loves the most, that's why daddy ended up in camp "away". To which, the sick and much demented grandmother figure replied, "then God must really, really love your daddy". Concessions. Holy, moldy shit, concessions.
I have picked up my giant ass fly/hornet swatter and I am going to destroy anything that stands in my way and that means you: Resentment, hate and pity - you were sent here to piss me off.
But what happens when you catch yourself in the mirror and you stop, truly stop in your tracks? You try to deny it but it is there. You look just like your brother, who looks just like your dad. You said it yourself last Thanksgiving when you couldn't take your eyes off your brother because he made you uneasy, like he was going to send you to your room at any moment for being the worlds first and only virgin whore. And here I am, looking like my brother who looks like my dad. Same fucking nose, same fucking eyes, same fucking.....?
Same fucking hero to a little league baseball team who counted on the gray haired man with a lawn chair, a huge smile, and a pocket full of dollars for a sugar coma provided by none other than a concession stand.
Fuck me - I have to stand on top of these concessions? I'm going to need more than a few licorice sticks.