So Tired

I feel like I've forgotten where I've been. It's not as if anything of note has happened to me the last few weeks, but it seems as if I'm walking through a cloud. Perhaps it's because of the utter exhaustion I can't seem to shake. I feel like I'm constantly going and going all day long every single day. Even on days I purposely try to do nothing, I still end up feeling drained. Is this because of being pregnant? Perhaps a pre-baby exercise in exhaustion so I know what to expect? Maybe it's because I can't seem to get a good night's sleep. I wake up about every 2 hours to go pee (effing bladder... I can't wait until all my internal organs are back in their proper places), and I can't get comfortable. My lovely soft bed feels like a rock. I fear my medication isn't working because lately I've been getting so overwhelmed by things. But I haven't felt a panic attack coming on or the heavy depression either. So maybe it's just me. I don't know. I can't wait for it to be over, but at the same time I'm absolutely dreading it. I don't know what I'll do. I really don't think I'll make a very good parent. I'm a terribly modest person and I can't stand the idea of people poking around down there or poking and prodding at me like some kind of farm animal. Especially since Erik and Sara will be in the room with me. And the worst part is the not knowing. I'm such a control freak. I like everything to be planned out and to have all the details in order before I do something. You can't exactly do that when having a baby. You just kind of deal with it. I don't think I'm dealing with it very well. I keep thinking about it and for all the planning and lists and organizing I do, I still can't control the situation. It's so hard. Especially because I'm afraid that he'll be born early. I had a dream he was born August 15th. The thought scares me to death. I keep thinking "but I don't have a carseat! But I don't have a carseat!" I know. Silly thing to think about, especially since i live 2 blocks from the hospital. If all else fails, we can walk. It hasn't even happened yet and the whole thing makes me tired.

--dragon Read more!

Hell is a Goverment Waiting Room

5 hours in a waiting room filled with small, LOUD children and crazy homeless people who think that you shouldn't talk to homeless old ladies because they are wearing bandanas of a specific color, and so they are "flying the rag" or some such crap. Not that I was particularly interested in striking up a conversation with her anyways, but that's a pretty stupid reason not to. Is it just me, or do poor people tend to have really badly behaved children? Don't shoot me for that comment. I have just never seen such a conglomoration of children under the age of 8 who were so incredibly ill-behaved. And most of their parents didn't even make a token effort to do anything about it. Ooh yeah. Fantastic combination, that. Oh, and I forgot my damn CD player (no, I'm not that lame, I used to have a friggin awesome 60 gig Ipod, but it was stolen... the day I paid it off.) I had a notebook and some happy colored gel pens to amuse me. Not even a pamphlet to read or draw devil horns and other middle-school type graffiti on. What a great way to spend my day.

So if you haven't guessed, I waltzed my little (yeah, that's a lie) self down to the department of social services today and applied for food stamps. Because although I am somehow able to sort of pay my bills each month, and sort of have enough food, it's mostly due to luck, sympathy from my friends and family, and some seriously precarious financial footwork. Today I did the math and found that with what I am making, I can pay my rent, car insurance, phone, electricity, and keep enough gas in my car to get to work and back with about $44 dollars to spare. Keep in mind that this is before buying any food. Obviously something needed to happen there.

So yeah. I finally qualified (this would be my 3rd or 4th time applying this year) because I didn't have to file with Erik (apparently, we made $100 a month too much). All I have to do is get a written statement from my "roommate" (i.e. my mom) saying that we split the rent and utilities in half and don't buy or prepare our food together. The payment part is true, but it's a complete lie that we don't purchase or prepare our food together. Yeah. But you know what? I don't care. I am flat-ass broke. I can't even afford to save up to get my kid circumscised. I'm pretty much screwed. I imagine that now that I am in the third trimester, I can probably qualify for cash aid, but applying for that is a whole 'nother headache.

The best part is, I have to go back tomorrow. Someone shoot me.

--dragon

(Has anyone else noticed that I use an excessive amount of parenthesis?) Read more!

Grant Me The Serenity, The Strength, The Wisdom

I've waited some days to post this. I needed time and distance to gather my thoughts.

I have written about my troubles with Erik. About my lack of attraction to him and my ongoing frustration with his childish, selfish behavior. Well, I've finally taken care of it.

I told Erik around the beginning of June that he needed to get on the ball and find a better job, as well as getting into some kind of counseling. I gave him until the 30th, and told him if he didn't meet those requirements, he would have to leave. I also made it clear that I would help him find a place to live and give him ample time to get situated. Of course, him being Erik, he didn't even bother starting to look until the beginning of the 3rd week of June. He only applied at a few places, refusing to try fast food or gas stations (which make up about half of the jobs he is qualified to do), because he feels he is "better than that". And of course, he never even bothered to look for a counselor, instead giving me every excuse in the book as to why he shouldn't.

One morning I asked him how his job hunting and search for a counselor were going. He told me the places he had applied (and had only checked back once at a few, and hadn't checked back at all at the rest), and whined about how he shouldn't have to find a counselor and tried to turn it around to say that I thought I didn't have problems and how I was saying that everything was his fault and blah blah blah. I told him that the 30th was fast approaching and that if he failed to meet my terms, which he had agreed to, then he was going to have to leave. I had already told him if he left, my mom and brother would move in so I could have a reliable, trustworthy roommate that was going to pay their bills and help me out. As usual, he turned everything I said around and twisted to mean things that made absolutely no sense, like how it didn't matter what he did (it did) and how I had been planning this all along behind his back (I wasn't, and he knew about it from the start). Of course, he had to play the victim.

So even though I made it very clear that he did not have to leave right away, and I would help him find a place to live and was all set up before he left, he refused any kind of help and had to be a martyr, whining about how he didn't have the money (which was part of the reason I was kicking him out, duh) and I was being cruel and unfair. I hate how he always plays the victim. I hate how he always tries to make people feel sorry for him and plays me out to be some kind of monster to all of our friends and his family. I'm not. I've tried to be as nice and helpful as possible. I've tried to make sure that we stay friends, that he is included in things related to the baby, and not say or do anything to make him feel or think that any of this is his fault.

I know he is hurt and upset, but he has no right to try and guilt me or get attention by making me out to be the bad guy. Since when is making sure that I can make it and be able to provide for myself and my soon-to-be child a crime? If he won't step up and be an adult, then I can't be with him. I can't be his mommy and the baby's mommy. I don't have the time, energy, strength, or patience. He abandoned me at the midwife's office yesterday, an hour before my lamaze class (which I ended up missing, thanks to him) because he somehow got it into his head that I never loved him or cared for him at all at all and was just using him. EXCUSE ME. I did and do care about him, but I can't afford him. All he'll ever do in life is be a weight. He has no desire to change or be better or even get a decent job. How am I supposed to take care of him, take care of the wee one, go to school, and work at the same time? I'm sorry, but I am just not that good.

I am the one that got pregnant. I am the one that is going to be the primary caregiver. I am the one that is going to have to completely change my entire goals to accomodate. It takes two to tango, but apparently it only takes one to fall flat on their ass. But so what? I have to suck it up and be strong. I have no choice. There are no other options for me. He doesn't even have any goals. He could care less if he lives the rest of his life doing exactly as he is doing now. Nothing for him has really changed. In fact, having a kid was his only goal. So, mission fulfilled, I guess. And yet he's the one who sits around moping and feeling sorry for himself? He's the one who feels abandoned and used? I'm sorry, but as completely empathetic and understanding as I am trying to be, that's just a little bit of a stretch for me.

I know I'm writing this out of anger, but I refuse to take it out on him. As my mom likes to say, if all else fails, kill 'em with kindness. And so I will. It's not like I'll gain anything by doing anything else.

--dragon Read more!

The Chemicals Between Us, Ma'Lalo

This is a subject that I have avoided. It is a long and complicated topic, and one that I don't feel as if I can adequately convey in any logical sense. I believe I touched on it once, but to really talk about it is like opening Pandora's box in my mind. I've waited a few days to think about it, to form some sort of cohesive train of thought. So here goes nothing--

Matt. He has been my best friend since I was 13 years old. (I'm now 21 in case you hadn't noticed) We met in 8th grade and instantly hated each other. Then for some crazy reason, one day we started talking to each other and were immediately inseparable. In a way, we have two relationships. We've always had this crazy sort of chemistry and can never stay away from each other for long. On the other hand, we also have this incredible friendship. Each part of our relationship plays into the other, while somehow remaining distinct. He is my first love. It's funny, but no matter who I am involved with, there is always a part of me reserved for him. I try to get past it, to avoid it, but it's always there. The same thing happens with him.

I've had a lot of problems in relationships because my boyfriends would become insanely jealous of our friendship. This is probably due mainly to two things: 1) I have terrible taste. 2) I always made it clear that my friends were more important than my boyfriend. Friends were there before the guy, and would probably be there after the guy. This is probably self defeating, because I have only ever had any reason to think two of the relationships I have been in to work out. I pretty much don't believe in 'happily ever after' or the idea that relationships can last a lifetime. Well, sort of.

Matt and I are both rather bullheaded individuals, and my belief in friends before lovers clashes directly with his habit of completely giving his entire being over to a girl he thinks he is in love with. Most of the time I let him know he is making a mistake and simply wait for the inevitable failure. This is because I am conceited and have very high standards. Funny how I never stick to them. Anyway, Matt, just like me, has terrible taste. He constantly picks girls that abuse him and walk all over him. So I generally know that in the end whichever girl he is with will break his heart and he will find out what a huge mistake he's made, and of course come running back to apologize to me for not listening (not that he ever listens the next time). Of course then I have to help him put himself back together and the cycle continues. Don't take that as a bitter statement. It doesn't bother me. It never has. I'd help him put his heart back together a thousand times if I had to. It just seems the timing is always wrong for us. I pick a loser, and then shortly thereafter Matt is single. Matt gets a girl, and then I dump the loser. We always just miss each other in passing, and are both too stupid to realize that we should just stop picking losers and go for who we really want: each other.

Of course, thanks to our common stupidity and overall bullheadedness, we have disagreements from time to time, and don't speak for a few months. Sometimes, due to circumstances, we aren't able to contact each other (Matt was in the Army and spent time in a group home when he was 16). However, we always end up making up and it's as if nothing ever happened. Perhaps sometime we just need space. Recently, we had what was probably the worst falling out (there's never a fight. Simply one of us declaring we don't want to speak to the other because of some idiotic mistake on their part) that we've ever had.

The last time I spoke to him was November 14th, the day after I got my license. I've emailed him every month since then, apologizing and letting him know how my life was. I had begun to give up on ever seeing him again, when the day after I asked Erik to leave (did I tell you about that? No? Well I guess I shall have to do that soon) I recieved an email again. Interestingly, I had spoken to his mom that morning when I called to check up on him, and found out that he had been kicked out of the military and was living in a motel with his girlfriend and her 3 kids. (Yikes!)

In his email, he told me he wasn't mad and that he still was my best friend. He also mentioned that his girlfriend was verbally abusive and would barricade him in a room saying she would call the cops if he dared even touch her (he wouldn't ever even push a woman) and it was clear that he was terribly depressed. I emailed him back trying to cheer him up and let him know he could call me, and the next day got a reply saying that his girlfriend had hit him the night before and barricaded him in a room, telling him what a worthless piece of shit he was and how he should go back to Naomi (a horrid exgirlfriend who treated him like utter trash. He only just recently started getting over her). That was the most heartless thing she could have possibly said. He said he was packing up his things and leaving, and that he didn't know when he would be able to talk to me again, but he would let me know as soon as possible that he was ok. That was about 4 days ago.

I have no idea whether or not he actually left, or if he is perhaps still there, or if he is sleeping on the street somewhere. For all I know, and this is actually rather likely, he's hitching rides on the highway trying to get back home to California. I'm worried about him. I miss him. I'm overjoyed that he doesn't hate me. Mostly though, I just want to know that he is alright. I told him to come home and if I had to, I would drive out to Colorado and get him. I hope he is safe.

--dragon Read more!

From Hell To Breakfast, Part II

Scattered through the box you will find about 6 pairs of glasses: a child sized pair with round frames and a blue tortoiseshell pattern, a larger pair of silver half frames , a pair of reddish brown plastic half frames with chips in the lenses, a brown plastic pair with squarish lenses, a blue plastic pair with even squarer lenses, and a wide purple metal pair with very square lenses. These are all the glasses I’ve owned since I began wearing them in sixth grade. Each of them represents a period in my life and reflects a slightly different version of me. I wore the first pair from sixth until eighth grade. They were definitely glasses made for a preteen. They were sort of dorky and bookish, which is what I was in middle school. Around the middle of eighth grade I got the silver pair. They were sleeker and more grown up, but still had that nerdy look to them. Then in ninth grade I started wearing contacts almost exclusively. I was very “goth” and didn’t feel that heavy black eyeliner went well with glasses.
I continued to wear contacts until eleventh grade, when I started wearing glasses again. That was when I got the reddish-brown pair. I still wore contacts, but I liked the option of wearing glasses if I chose. They were sort of nerdy but by that time it was cool to wear thick rimmed glasses. The next pair I got I was pressured to get by a friend, and I never really liked them. I didn’t feel they fit my face and they were too narrow, so I took to wearing my old glasses even though the prescription was expired. Interestingly enough, at that point in my life I made a lot of decisions based on what others thought, usually to similar results.
The last time I got glasses I actually got two pairs: the blue pair and the purple pair. I like the purple pair the best, but I do wear the blue pair on occasion. I picked them both out myself and I like them better than any pair I’ve previously worn. They are distinctive and unique, but aren’t weird looking, which is what I strive for. Each pair of glasses embodies a different me. With the first pair, I was just beginning to establish a separate identity for myself. Prior to that point, fashion and the way one looks never really affected me. With each progressive pair of glasses, however, I refined both my outward appearance and my outlook on life. The bolder my choice in eyewear, the more definitive my personality became. I see my glasses as a very recognizable extension of myself. It is almost that a person can see my glasses without me attached and just know that they are mine. For me, they are a definitive accessory, and a necessary one at that. I look to each March (the month I get my eye exam) as a chance to renew myself. As such, I look at my old glasses as monuments, however small and inconsequential, to all the people I have been.
Buried deeper in the box is a black Sharpie. I rarely make tentative statements. Generally, when I say or think something, it is the next best thing to being written in stone. It takes a lot to convince me to change my mind once it is made up. Sharpies are very permanent. You don’t write something in black permanent marker unless you intend for it to be there a long time. Not only is it permanent, it is thick and bold. This very much embodies my habit of making bold, certain statements.
At the bottom of the box is a folded up piece of black canvas. Upon closer inspection, one discovers that it is a full length trench coat. If pressed, I would have to say that this is my absolute favorite possession. My mom bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. It has survived a move to Kansas, a trip to Mississippi, and about 5 moves within Butte County. When I could bring only what I could carry out on my back, I have brought this coat. It is a shield, insulating me against the world. It acts as a buffer when I don’t want to be bothered and grabs attention when I feel unnoticed. It is dramatic, worn, sturdy, and unique. This is the single most defining item I own. I intend to own this coat in some incarnation or another for as long as I can stand up to put it on. Often I wear clothes that are distressingly normal and I feel like a fraud. It’s only when I put on my trench coat, my Converse shoes, my black eyeliner, that I feel like the real me.
My belongings are scattered from hell to breakfast. I have left pieces of myself in nearly every county in the state. But there are a few things I will not leave behind. The reason why these items are so important is not based on their usefulness or practicality. None of them is particularly valuable. If I were in a bind and decided to hawk my most precious belongings at the nearest pawn shop, I’d be lucky to get $50 for the whole lot. The value in these objects lies in the fact that they are irreplaceable. Sure, I could buy a new Sharpie or a new pair of chopsticks. A quick trip to Hottopic in the mall and about $80 would buy me a new trench coat. However, it wouldn’t be the same. My trench coat is missing all the buttons and is faded thanks to the time my mom thought that “dry clean only” was merely a suggestion. My chopsticks were bought in an oriental specialty store in Starkville, MS. These things have stories. They remind me of me, a person I all too often forget. I can buy new dishes. I can buy a new bed, a new computer. These things mean nothing to me. Each time I move and have to leave more and more behind, I realize that everything is cheap and replaceable. The memories and dreams that each of these represent are not. That is why I always pack these things first. Read more!

Seeing Red

A few days ago I bled. Me + pregnant + bleeding= bad. It was 3 am and I woke up feeling like I had wet my pants. I would have been a happy to find I had, knowing what it could have been. But it was red. RED! Bright-fresh-copper-scented blood. (yeah, too much detail, I know) My first thought was Oh, Shit. My second thought was how incrediby bright it was. When I cut myself, or pick at a scab, it's not nearly that red. Much darker, and in far smaller quantities. It only lasted about 20-30 minutes, but it seemed like a whole hell of a lot more blood than one would expect, and far more than my midwife seemed to think. Granted, she didn't see it, but still. I was most likely overreacting, but thus far I have had no complications at all, everything has been smooth sailing and the only real drawback was the 12 weeks of daily vomiting. I was totally unprepared for it.

Needless to say, I was scared.

I had visions of a 10-week premature baby, no pre-delivery time off work to prepare for the baby, and (odd how this seemed important) missing Ozzfest. I kept thinking that I had nothing for him other than the small basket of baby clothes my stepdad bought for me. I spent 3 hours online looking up possible causes (placenta previa being the most likely) and what kind of survival rate a 29 week old baby faces. What kind of problems the wee one might face. I don't think I am adequately conveying how incredibly frightened I was. I'm still worried about it. Yesterday at work I kept thinking, What if it happens again? What if it happens while I'm at work? Boy, that would be awkward. Although knowing my manager, she would probably drive me to the emergency room herself.

I was so scared.

I'm still scared.

--dragon Read more!

Break Out the Booze! Or Not..

So today is my 21st birthday. Wee. Normally one would be expected to celebrate by consuming massive amounts of alcohol and waking up the next morning with a tattoo of the word "Mom" or "Bubba" in an inappropriate place. Not that I ever intended to do any of that (not big into drinking or partying), but given that I have no choice but to abstain, I find it to be somewhat irritating. I hate not being able to make a choice, but rather being forced to follow a certain course due to circumstances. Since I can't, I wanna. Oh well. Tough cookies.

I can get over that, of course. There are plenty of other things one can do on one's birthday, 21st or otherwise, and we had planned a nice afternoon of shopping (since I asked for new clothes, as I am totally lacking in the wardrobe department, doubly so since now my stomach seems to be rebelling against my jeans...damn pregnant-ness...), going to the farmer's market and having dinner, and then finishing off the evening at Open Mic. Pretty much a typical Thursday afternoon, other than the shopping. My brother stayed the night for a few days prior, and my mom was supposed to come over after work. And, of course, just like every other year, something happened to ruin it. My mom came down with the stomach flu or something and had to leave work early, come here and get my brother, and then go home-- hopefully in time to avoid throwing up all over the dash. Poor mom. She looked and sounded terrible. It just makes me mad that every year something happens to screw up my plans. It's enough to make a person stop having birthdays altogether. Oh well. I guess we'll just do nothing, we're broke and can't afford to do anything fun anyways.

--dragon Read more!