Time jump

 “Are you ok?” asked Sarah.

“Yeah. Why?” I asked, dusting off my pants, focusing my blank stare on her face.

“You look… off. Distracted.”

I dreamt of you. You once again made your way into my dream. Those dreams where one wakes up, goes back to sleep, and continues the same dream.

It wasn’t a nightmare, but I had the realization that you hadn’t visited in years.

“I’m miserable…” I say.

You hug me, then leave your right hand on my left shoulder— you squeeze it.

“It’ll be ok,” you say.

We walk shoulder to shoulder in the empty streets of Mykonos, shoulder to shoulder, without saying a word, but feeling the warmth of companionship.

“I’ve missed you,” I say.

I woke up, got ready for school and work… and didn’t say a word. My brain was absent today. I looked outside the giant window next to my work desk, but focused on nothing.

I scroll through my emails at 8:29am… notice I get a new message, but stare out the window again.

I look back at my computer screen and reply to the message— it’s now 10:37am.

“My apologies… I was in a meeting.”

I’ve missed you.

I’m miserable.

Ideation

My depression is running wild.
I have been crying inconsolably for four days now.

There's been a ton of that ideation going on... it's why I started on this crying tour. My brain somehow convinced me there's no other option... so I was crying.

I opened up to a friend Monday night, after she asked me how I was doing.
Her response was that she was about to go to sleep, but she'd reply to me the next day after work.
I heard nothing.

Shit like that just makes me feel more alone. It makes me scoff... then cry.

How did I get here, man?

Jaw surgery

I'm reading through old posts and finding myself smiling.
I imagine this is what people in novelas feel when attempting to recuperate their memory after a bad accident
"Que paso? Quien eres? Quien... soy?!"
"Tranquilizate, sufriste un accidente... perdiste la memoria."
"Pero... ayy, mi cabeza... me duele tanto."
"No te preocupes... juntos lograremos recordar."
... those type of plot-lines.

I'm finding some fucking golden lines in there. I really came up with that shit? Jesus Christ, was God talking to me in those moments?
Ha. Nah, more like some fucking raw emotions.

For instance, this line from December 2013:
(Imagination-- that's what has kept my heart beating all these years. That's how I can deal. That's how I handle anything. Just give me enough time to dream, and I'm good)
Or this beauty from November of that same year:
My heart is not gold, or titanium, or even iron-- it's coal... an energy source which is consumed for the generation of cooler shit.

It's all true. It remains true.

Goddamn, I said that shit? ... that's nuts.

It shows just how disconnected I currently am with the real me. It's like picking up a stranger's journal and being enthralled by it... then realizing I'M the fucking author... how in the fuck? Some "Memento" type shit.

I've been working on my vocabulary. On my knowledge.
I didn't know the extent of the loss until reading through my old entires.
The loss is huge. It's very much like hackers went into the filing cabinets in my brain and erased a huge chunk.
Things that used to be common knowledge to me ten years ago are seriously obscure little gems now.
I blame it on illness, I blame it on pregnancy, I blame it on depression... and I blame it on company.
It has all added up to me being at a total loss of the person I used to be.

I'm finding myself increasingly sad as my time to go back to Arizona approaches.
Originally I was going to leave last week but that had to be put on hold because I literally went through jaw surgery.
I wasn't ready for it.
When I was at the dentist, I WAS told about potentially seeing a periodontist on May 10th back in mid April when I had my teeth cleaned. The hygienist was concerned with the "pockets" in my gums and recommended I see a periodontist the next time she came to the clinic (apparently these motherfuckers travel around the city instead of just having an office we can visit... ?). She told me the perio was booked for her May 10th visit, but if anyone cancelled (and "there's always at least one cancellation") they'd call me to come in. I agreed thinking no biggie.

Well, May 10th rolls around and I get the call to come in at 2pm. I do... like it was just some regular check up, since I haven't felt pain, just some discomfort.
I then have this cool young lady come in to the room and checks out my grill.
She lays it on me: every single one of my molars is in deep trouble. Everything is "either a 5 or 6 (millimeters in depth. That's the depth of the pocket. If you have anything over a 3 it means you got yourself a mild case of gingivitis. Anything 6 or plus-- 8 being max, it is serious periodontitis), you're going to need bone grafts on all three molars, one premolar of all four sides. You cool with that?"
Me: Is it going to hurt?
Perio: Most uncomfortable part will be getting it all numb, but we first use the topical numbing cream so after that you won't feel a thing.
Me: Uh, is it possible to get it all done now?
Perio: You sure can.
Me: Then let's do this. I'm down for it all.

Big motherfucking mistake.
Chick leaves the room to set up everything and also "run the numbers" of how much this is going to cost me.
Perio's assistant walks in with an ipad to show me a video of "what is going to happen" and I very calmly grab the ipad and watch the video as the dude leaves the room.
Jesus fucking christ. I almost passed out as soon as they showed the scalpel. They were going to detach my gums from the bone, scrape my fucking BONE to get all the bacteria, then DRILL OFF MY FUCKING BONE, then add the cadaver bone, then suture my gums back onto my fucking bone.

I sat in frozen silence.
What. The. Fuck.

Next time anyone walks in it's the dentist's secretary-- she has the bill.
The surgery is originally $13,000... with my TWO dental insurances, it comes out to $3,289.
"Is this ok?" she asks.
I nod.
I fucking guess... I need fucking BONE CADAVER IN MY FUCKING FACE.

I sign everything and I'm once again sitting alone in the room... texting everyone like a maniac, scared as shit.
Perio walks in after perhaps ten minutes of me panic-texting my family.
Let's roll.
Lady applies the topical gel all over my gums and palate and area under my tongue near the far back... which ONLY WORKS ON ONE SIDE OF MY FACE because for whatever fucking reason, my dumbfuck body is resistant to this shit.
Then come the shots of Novocain. 
SIXTEEN MOTHERFUCKING SHOTS. SIXTEEN. Four on each side on the outside, four shots on the fucking INSIDE. And let me fucking tell you... the shot that is placed on the muscle that holds your fucking tongue on the far back.... that motherfucking shot... is the WORST fucking pain I have felt in my life. Give me seven spinal taps... 'cause FUCK ever feel that tongue shot ever again. The fucking liquid going inside sounded like a pop in my ear!

After that traumatic event, the perio left to "let me get numb"... yeah. So she's gone for about half an hour, all the while I can hear her in her two other appointments, speaking with equally panicked people.
My body starts shaking, a thing it has done after traumatic physical events... I mean, it's normal. I then realize that my right side of the face is not numb whatsoever. I panic even worse.
The perio's assitant walks in to check on me and asks if all is good. I let him know I am not numb on the right side, and he lets me know it's ok... that the perio comes back and reapplies more Novocain, in a larger quantity before the surgery.
Once the assistant left, I went back to panicking. These fucking breaks did nothing to chill me out.
After about ten minutes the surgeon came back in and went right to cutting my mouth open.
For the most part, everything felt like pressure on my bone... but after two hours, everything started wearing off... I felt three drills into my bone which led to immediate shaking... but the surgery had to go on. I felt everything on my hind molars of my LEFT side, and one molar on my right side. The suturing was the worst. I literally cried for the entire time, tears streamed down my face the entire time.
This fucking thing last three hours. Three hours of torture.
Then came the "healing"... which was a swollen face for three days (it's still swollen on my lower lip) and I drooled blood for two days.
I've been on a pudding and jello diet up until yesterday when I ventured to chew on pho noodles. It sucked. Back on the jello.

So yeah. That was my last week... just recovering from jaw surgery.
Now, before people go off and claim it was poor oral hygiene, it wasn't. Everyone was surprised because I would brush and floss three times a day like a maniac. Pregnancy did this to me. Two back to back pregnancies busted my gums. Had I not done this surgery, I would have lost my teeth, since I already lost plenty of bone in my jaw since my first pregnancy.
I basically have to sit back and hope this works.

Never get pregnant, y'al.

Emerald Dress

 Thank you for visiting in my dreams last night.

It was vivid as hell. I felt like I was there. I felt like it really happened.
And I was at peace.
I was happy.
You made me smile.

I remember thinking in the dream "Ummm... wtf am I doing here? I'm going to get in trouble."
But... I was a bridesmaid. I was in a rush. I was having horrible social anxiety.
The dress was a sleeveless mermaid dress... emerald in color.
I just wanted to take the photos in the fancy church and run the hell out.

Then it's dark. I'm back on the beaches of Mykonos, sitting quietly alone, looking up at the stars.
No sadness.
No yearning.
Just peace.
In perfect, soothing solitude.
A sky so violet, it was lit up by a brilliant moon and equally bright stars.
A breeze that swooshed in a rhythm that fell in synch with my heartbeat.

Then you show up and sit next to me without saying a word. You look up at the stars too.
"I just... wish I could go back to how it was. How it used to be. I want to be selfish again. I just want to go back," I say.
"It'll be ok," you say as you get up and walk away.

After some more time spent admiring the sky and feeling the breeze on my face, I look over to the empty spot you left and an old digital camera in the sand... the screen turn on to a photo from the wedding I had left.
You took all sorts of beautiful candid photos of me as I rushed through the wedding, the camera was full of them. I saw so many profile photos, I remember feeling surprised I ever looked like that. I wondered if you had altered them. Then I felt warmth in my heart as I realized... that was how you saw me. That was the version of me you saw... but I was always so busy being angry and agitated and just... anxious.

Stop and enjoy the ride, bro.
That's the message I got... aside from the much needed relaxation... and the calming presence of yours.

My mind has Darcy as a calming presence. I seem to admire his ability to ride the wave.

And for those brief moments, I was calm.

Still alive I guess

The surgeon ended up prescribing me Percocet.
I don't know why the Dr. changed his mind about providing me with some post-op drugs, my best bet is that the messed up gallbladder agitated the area more than he expected.
Eating sucks, just as I had been warned. Anything I ingest ends up feeling like a shuriken just ripping up my intestines.

My biggest anxiety pre-op was not knowing how general anesthesia would work on me. I almost had an attack when they started clamping my arms and legs on to the operating table, and it only intensified as they placed the oxygen over my mouth.
The (cool) anesthesiologist then looked over at me and told me it was going to "burn" once I felt the anesthesia going in. Just as I was going to say "Oh shit, that was fast..." when I felt my eyelids feel heavy, I woke up to the sound of my heart monitor and I tried to say "Oh shit, y'all, I'm waking up!" thinking I was still about to get cut up.
I then realized my throat felt incredibly phlegmy, but I couldn't get it out. Instead, I let out an "Ohkayyy..." then a weaker "that was fast..."
I was surprised at how quickly the groggy feeling was dispersing.

I had no nausea, just a whole lot of fear of what was to come. I as under the impression that this was going to suck.

But nah... I'm doing alright. I mean, it fucking blows that I can't hold either of my boys... the littlest is the one completely bewildered by this... my poor little angel baby.
Ah, and I damn near fainted yesterday after my post-op shower... those motherfuckers always get me for whatever reason... probably my subconscious acting up at the sight of my wounds and how generally uncomfortable I am with all that shit.
But, I'm ok.

A cool thing I noticed is that my body doesn't feel as sluggish, or lethargic anymore. This last month felt like such a goddamn burden. There's now brightness to my day, if that makes sense... even if it's just me shuffling back and forth between my bedroom and the living room... I feel the warmth of the sun... I see the sharpness of color.

And that's it. That's all I have to say about anything. No feelings no nothing... I'm just going through the days waiting for these damn incisions to close up so I can stop thinking about them.

Pre-op thoughts

I'm doing better.
I saw a Mexican celebrity (Gloria Trevi. Looking back on older entries, I get agitated as fuck over my vagueness on some posts. I guess I swore I'd always have the good memory to remember what the fuck or who the fuck I was talking about. Plot twist: I fucking don't. Pregnancy stole that away from me... my good memory, that is. Now it's a good day when I fucking remember what my husband told me two hours ago. It feels like garbage... a horrible loss I can't put into words because I just find myself crying over how torturous it feels to have very little memory, and having it NOT return to me like so many people promised me it would... it's not coming back, guys... it's not fucking coming back) talking about how a few days after receiving her COVID vaccine she had horrible depression, but it only lasted a few days.
I went ahead and finally got vaccinated on the 10th of this month. I then struggled with a very intense case of depression... suicidal... for about a week. I don't know... it just sort of makes sense.

I hate having people telling me my "sadness" will go away. I hate people being angry at me because I admit that motherhood is... weird to me... that it isn't, it wasn't, my ultimate goal in life... how it didn't even rank as a goal... and now I'm here with two little humans for whom I'm responsible. I hate how some people translate it as me not loving my kids. I fucking love the shit out of them... I want them to have an amazing life and know no sorrows. Seeing them smile makes my fucking world feel like a very colorful, brilliant universe. But at the end of the day, I feel empty. I feel... I feel like I've been dead... completely gone, for three years now. A total fucking shell of a human who has no memories, no ambitions, no... no interests... no knowledge. I'm just this goddamn shell who goes through motions of changing diapers and feeding babies... checking up on the wellness of others.
Bro... what happened to your intelligence? WERE you even intelligent? You were pretty fucking annoying, actually.
My mind beats me up relentlessly... my body even worse.
I'm getting my gallbladder removed on the 27th. I've never been put under anesthesia... just that good shit that is an epidural (lmao... good shit... lmao. I trembled like a leaf both times, but sat there cracking jokes through it all to try and at least laugh instead of cry... to get the room full of people to laugh instead of feel sorry for me). So I'm a little scared sometimes... I claim to want to die, but as soon as I think of it actually possibly occurring I get all scared like a dumbass. I think... what if I don't wake up? What if my shitty heart goes kaput and they can't get it to work again? What a way to go... not even knowing you're going...
Anyway, I hadn't suffered any gallbladder attacks since they first discovered stones in there back in 2018... when they told me I had to keep it in there until "they either turn cancerous or you have an attack." Welp, come Valentine's Day of this year, I suffered the infamous attack. That shit lasted from 10pm until 5am... and it was a pain so goddamn unbearable, I spent the night crying, trying to find a position to be in that wasn't causing me more pain. The pain was worse than the contractions I felt with my kids... it was worse than any pain I've ever felt. I cried even more because I felt so alone... my husband occasionally looking down at me writhing on the floor as he slept on our double-king size bed (two king sized bed put together because we got a free mattress ha. That's a funny story), asking "You're STILL having the attack?!" and going back to sleep... it... really broke me to have him do that. No pat on the back, no offers to bring me some warm tea... or even some tylenol... just an irritated "You're still having the attack?"
Anyway, since that attack, I went to my doctor asking for some sort of resolution to this, and I was scheduled for surgery in FUCKING APRIL. Since then, as the date approaches, my attacks become more frequent-- less painful, but multiple little attacks a day. I can't really eat anything... everything fucking sucks and I'm left with horrible pain in my stomach. I'm nauseated every day-- not the nausea I felt when pregnant (that fucking animal is goddamn inexplicable... it fucking sucks on a level I never knew existed. I never want to feel that again), but the thought of food makes me feel sick.

I'm basically breaking down, physically. I long for the days when I was very heartbroken and lost... but with a body that did damn near anything... that beast of a body that could workout for hours... like a motherfucking ox. Now I'm a broken human... completely broken... and my body has joined the cause. I can't even fucking EAT without being in pain. My skin is ripped to shreds... and what isn't ripped is rashed up with no signs of healing.
Like... what the fuck happened, AnoMALIE? Goddamn... my god... fuck. I just didn't know how bad things could get... and how it would still be demanded of me to ACT like I'm fine and be "Strong".... how it's even MORE demanded of me now.

I know, or at least I hope, this will eventually go back into hibernation... this depression... I keep myself going by telling myself that life is a fucking rollercoaster. I'm currently on the wild decent where you feel your innards wanting to exit through your mouth (and oh boy, that is so fucking literal right now)... but eventually I'll get that feel good shit where I'm going back up while enjoying the beautiful view. That has to return, right? Maybe this cholecystectomy will return some sense of normalcy to my life (y'all... it is "highly recommended" I follow a vegetarian lifestyle after this. The fuck? I'm Mexican... the fuck you asking me to do here? Nah, homes... I'll find a way to enjoy a nice little carne asada from time to time).
Let's see how this shit turns out. Might update before the operation... but if I don't, let me just put it out there that I'm good with the outcome... just please remember the happy, annoying Me... the one who often times was too caught up in her own little dreamy world fantasy to catch a joke as it flew completely over her head.
And it's not all darkness for me right now... my boys make me laugh every day. Yes, they drive me batshit crazy and wear the shit out of me... but they get me to chuckle each and every day. These boys get me to talk in a strange, goofy voice every day. These boys are the warm sun in the dark, dark bog my mind has forced me to live in.

Compounding Depression

I never thought depression could take on this intensity. 

So much bullshit compiling... postpartum, quarantine, seasonal... it has conglomerated in the strangest, most difficult manner I could have never imagined.
I think I'm coming out of it... I can joke now, and I also go outside and participate in living... but that is more of a recent thing.

I now stand firmer in my belief that depression never really leaves your body, it lies dormant, ready to pounce when given a chance (or just random as fuck when your brain chemistry says "Why the fuck not? Come along, little homie, I'll make room for you"). It has nearly succeeded in its intent three times this go around... this time what has made me stay is the thought that I'm still needed. I'm not sure what will happen once the feeling of being "needed" is gone... once the ones I think require my existence are finally capable of continuing without me.

I spend my days watching my kids play. I'll sit alone on my porch outside-- husband at work-- and cry most of the time... or I'll be cussing... or wondering how the fuck I got here... wondering why the universe gave my poor kids such a bad mom. Why the fuck was I given kids?
Did you ever think this would be you, five years ago?

I recently had my four year anniversary. My dude came up here to visit (ahhhh, yes, I'm once again with my parents because-- SURPRISE! my gallbladder has to be removed. I had a horrifying gallstone attack on Valentine's Day that lasted from 10pm until 5am. I was doubled over in pain, on my knees, because that was the only way I could breathe. I cried that entire nigh because no one could really help me... all the urgent cares were closed because I live in the BIGGEST FUCKING SHITVILLE in Arizona. I fucking DETEST that place. Anyway, turns out my gallstones are now super huge and I need the entire organ out since that's the only way you get rid of gallstones. Apparently I acquired mine because I gained too much weight way too fast, and proceeded to lose weight way too fast. Oh, and besides that, my two year old broke his leg in three places on the 7th and I had to rush to Vegas for him to see a specialist because the urgent care out in Arizona was ridiculously racist and abused my child. They manipulated the shit out of his leg and proceeded to tell me "I don't think he's broken because if he were, he wouldn't let me do all this to his leg" while my poor kid writhed, spit, and hissed in pain. They didn't want to run x rays on him but I begged for them to please just do it anyway. They sent me home-- 30 fucking minutes away, because again, Arizona's a fucking piece of shit place-- because "from what we observed, there doesn't appear to be a breakage anywhere," then called me back half an hour to tell me that "the tech checked out the x-rays, turns out he's actually fractured in his fibula and tibia. Bring him back so we can put a splint." I saw a specialist here in Vegas and he found a third fracture--the biggest-- in the middle of his tibia. Again, I fucking detest Arizona) and we "celebrated" by going to a restaurant. He would stare into my eyes lovingly while I was staring blankly. I'd snap out of my drift once I'd sense his eyes on me for too long.

I'm tired. I'm tired and I'm not myself. I don't know who this new version of Me is. She doesn't like anything... everything makes her cry... she has so much anger and sadness in her heart, she hardly ever feels happiness.
My kids make me laugh a lot, I won't lie... they really are cool as fuck and hilarious. They exhaust the life out of me... and my oldest scares me a bit because sometimes I wonder if he's going to be a maniac due to his random thoughts that are too mature for his age (I prayed for an intelligent child, but this guy is too fucking smart and it's straight scary sometimes) and how intense his tantrums are... but I love the fucking shit out of them.

I just don't know who I am. And I'm unhappy. I cry a lot. The feeling of loneliness has returned (as opposed to my beloved solitude. Loneliness is a different lion... it's at 1999-2001 levels, but this time I don't have a Tyson to accompany me on my nights of quietly sitting outside as I stare at the stars and cry my eyes out. Now I have two kids that become frightened the moment they see Mami with any sign of sadness... I have to find a way to comfort myself).

It's crazy... now that I supposedly have so much unconditional love coming my way, I feel alone and foreign. I feel inadequate. 

I'm riding this bitch out... but it fucking sucks. I hope the sadness and confusion leaves soon enough... no one is having a good time.

2020

 My soul is breaking into pieces... and I don’t know who to talk to.

anger owns fear

Guesssss who's depressed again!
Yay!

I try every day to fight this shit... but it appears the universe only wants to see me sad. Smiles and happiness... and dreams-- dude, I reached the level where I actually looked forward to the future and had fucking DREAMS-- just are not meant for your girl right here.

I guess on the positive side, the sadness has done wonders for my fear. Fear levels are at an all time low. Now I'm just angry:
"If I catch this fucking virus because of you and your endless goddamn need to go to the grocery store every other day, I'M COMING BACK TO HAUNT YOUR FUCKING ASS!"
That sort of deal.

My kids are great. The oldest is wild as shit, and he doesn't really like me anymore... but he's still fantastic. I get it. I'm hard to even like.

But the sadness... it just exists... it lingers... it intensifies at random times like psoriasis flare ups.
I just have to learn to thread carefully.

I hope to one day be on the ascent again.

2013ish

Damn it. Here I thought I'd be able to write every day.
Journaling with a computer is much more difficult than with pen and paper... my kid doesn't care about me messing with pen and paper. Computer? That kid will wreck my shit.

My anxiety is a roller coaster... not the traditional kind, but like the fucking Goliath at Six Flags (don't know what I'm talking about? You're missing out, bro).
Each time one of my kids cries I freak out... my heart races thinking "this is it... my kid has it."
I fucking "stress sweat" all fucking day. I live in my pajamas since it's pointless to fuck up any more of my clothes with this fucking sweat.

Then some days I feel sort of like myself. I feel like AnoMALIE2013ish. I'm at home with my parents, I hang out in my room... I walk on the treadmill and sweat up a storm. I write in my blog. Ha. I'm temporarily at peace.
Then one of my babies cries.
Or my husband texts me some stressful shit (Jesus Christ, does the home go to hell when I'm not there. All hell fucking breaks loose... everything fucking breaks. Shit drives me fucking nuts).
Or I check Twitter.

One positive is that my panic attacks have been greatly reduced. I am nowhere near the level I was when I started writing again. I'm still scared as shit... irritated as shit... paranoid as shit... but I think I'm sort of at the resignation portion of this wild ride. Sort of. I still cry when I think one of my parents or kids could catch this shit.

I wish I could write about any other type of subject. Or be funny, or just anything other than paranoid and terrified... but I can't.

I hope I can write more tomorrow.

Very good mom

I'm not editing these posts, man... I'm sure reading them sometime down the road I'll be cringing just like I do when I re-read my old paper diaries.

I find it appropriate my first two posts have been about my two babies. These two little humans are what have my anxiety at such a scary level. I'm always worrying about them, the smallest sneeze will have me paranoid for the entire day.
I read all the horror stories of parents with sick kids and freak out. I don't wish any type of pain and suffering on little kids... they're the least deserving.

I still weird myself out when I mention my kids. They appeared in my life in such a quick unexpected time... little humans I never thought I'd have... little humans I always said I'd never have.
I'm not your typical mom. I'm actually pretty fucking bad at it. I hear all the fellow moms talk about how enamored they are with the job... but I... I feel like a total failure.
I suck at comforting my kids. That shit makes me cry when I think about it too long. I also tell myself I'll get better at it as they get older.
A while back I was playing a game with my husband, where I had to interview him with a list of questions provided by a friend. It was one of those "get to know me" type games.
The question was "describe me in three words" and his response was "very good mom" and I started to cry. He thought I was crying because I was so touched by the answer... but I cried because... am I not more than a "mom"? Everyone else used three adjectives to describe their significant other, and my man said "very good mom." And I'm not even a good mom! I KNOW I'm not a good mom. I don't feed my kids all that organic shit, I don't make their puree... hell, I couldn't even breastfeed either of them-- they wouldn't accept it! Do you know how upsetting and heartbreaking it is for your offspring to reject you? Shit that has gone down for fucking ages... what has kept human kind going... is something my kids rejected... they would have preferred to starve to death.
I pumped for both kids, and both kids hated it... so I stopped.
That shit still makes me cry when I think about it.

I can't even play with my oldest... I've always been either too sick or too pregnant to do anything.
He's a very active little man... loves the outdoors and hates cartoons/television. I'm shit out of luck when it comes to helping him be happy. I apologize to him on the regular for being such a garbage mom. Everyone else picks up my slack and entertains him for me... just like they had to take care of him for me in his first months of life because my recovery was so stagnant and painful.

My littlest isn't faring so well with his mother. I apologize to him regularly as well... starting with how angry I was at knowing he existed... and how long I debated whether or not to keep him. I'll carry that guilt forever.
Then when I found out my body was poisoning him in the womb... I fucking cried and apologized for that too. I felt I brought that bad karma onto him... my poor chubby man. I cried so fucking much. I apologized so fucking much.
I can't care for him nearly as much as I should because my body is once again trash (but doing a little better than with the first baby). I apologize for that to both my kids... I'm sorry my body is such garbage.

My liver is enlarged/aggravated and my  gallbladder has large polyps... that shit often makes me think about my mortality. I asked about what to do with my gallbladder, and my gastroenterologist said I basically have to wait until the pain is unbearable or the polyps turn cancerous before they remove them. That was encouraging.

t hope I live long enough to make it up to them.

I'm not a very good mom, but I've always been convinced I'm a pretty good human being.

Segundo

Let's keep it trucking with my second pregnancy story.

So, liver issue. That shit had me fucked up and really upset from September 2018 and all of 2019.
I never really planned on having a second kid... maybe like three years down the road.
My main goal after having my first kid was to get healthy... I needed to lose weight and let my liver heal.
Everything was going fine, I was bonding with my baby, and I was once again enjoying the taste and sight of food. I was having a shit time trying to recover from the c-section, contracting an infection twice. I was four months postpartum when the damn fucking incision stopped bleeding... that's how shit-tastic that experience was. You learn a lot about your body parts when they get fucked up... like the fact that coagulating factor is made in the goddamn liver.
In June we were doing some remodeling at the house-- replacing the floors, to be exact-- so we were temporarily living only upstairs, downstairs being forbidden due to all the dust etc etc.
I could just feel my body being different. I fucking KNEW I was pregnant even if my I was only a week late.
Out of rage, I decided to go to the grocery store for a pregnancy test with the excuse of getting everyone food since we couldn't cook.
Upon coming home I went straight for the bathroom and peed on the stick. I wasn't scared, I wasn't excited, I was just... hyper aware what the fucking result was going to be.
Sure enough, fucking ten seconds into the wait the damn line appears.
I angrily opened the bathroom door, walked over to my husband, and threw the pregnancy test directly at the back of his head... piss still shaking off the stick.
"I TOLD YOU THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN! I FUCKING TOLD YOU!"
He laughed. Shit only made me angrier.
"I can't do this right now, man! I'm supposed to lose weight and heal my fucking liver! We could have at least waited until August, after my gastro appointment. Fuck, man! I don't even know if I'll be able to keep it!"
So, I made an appointment with my doctor and waited to see what the verdict would be.
My doctor was ecstatic to see me back... then noticed I wasn't too happy. I asked a couple of stupid questions (like "Will my incision pop back open?!") and she reassured me all would be well.
To prevent any drama like the first pregnancy, they put me on some aspirin and some other shit in hopes of curbing any potential preeclampsia (it's something like 90% sure you'll have it again in the following pregnancy. Some hardcore bullshit). Everything was so "good" I wasn't even considered "high risk" this time.
My barfing spells picked back up around the time I went to my first doctor's visit. The sessions weren't as extreme as with my first little bean, but they were still daily. With this baby, I couldn't even stomach water. I had daydreams about pounding water more than I did anything else. This baby only let me drink whole milk and cranberry juice, and only let me eat bread and tortillas... and cheese.
I once again had a subchorionic hemorrhage, which forced me into bedrest. They also decided I needed to take progesterone for two weeks after my blood panel came in. That medication gave me some crazy fucking dreams.
I found myself very sad most of the time, mainly because I couldn't give my first baby any attention. I would constantly apologize to him for not being able to hold him or play with him.
I couldn't bend over much, my belly was big very fast.
Then came the sugar tests around October. In my first pregnancy I passed the glucose test with flying colors. This time? I failed. I cried so much, mainly because I am terrified of diabetes.
I had to go back in a week later for the "three hour test" where they have to check my glucose levels for three fucking hours. This longer test I passed, however, each doctor visit would reveal glucose in my piss... so the doctor thought perhaps I was dancing around the borderline.
My bean was also measuring FOUR FUCKING WEEKS ahead of schedule so red flags started waving for my doctor and nurses.
"Where trying to figure out why this baby is so big. While it's obvious you make big babies, this baby is... this baby is very big."
They thought perhaps my "borderline diabetes" might be to blame for my giant baby (my first was a big baby, but he was only measuring two weeks ahead), so they told me to ACT like a diabetic... eat like one.
In December, I was given a fucking glucose monitor and I had to check my blood four times a day... it was so fucking shitty. I'm the biggest chicken when it comes to pricking my finger... the suspense fucking kills me.
Anyway, it was also around this time when everything went to hell. My "good" pregnancy entered "Scary" territory and I had to be monitored weekly after New Year's Day. My liver enzyme levels had once again gone to shit (oh yeah, by August I was back to complete normalcy, as though nothing had happened), my glucose was still doing it's little dance, and my blood pressure was starting to climb.
The weirdest symptom I felt was when I started feeling incredibly itchy... I would wake up in the middle of the night to realize I had been scratching the palms of my hands and soles of my feet while I was sleeping.
I ran the question of "Is it normal to feel this itchy?" to my doctor, and she freaked out. She prescribed me some Ursodiol "to help with the itching." She also directed me to some perinatal specialists as well as my gastroenterologist.
She wanted to induce me by week 38 (you can actually schedule a c-section at week 39, which was what my original date was set at because I was also getting my tubes tied. You need special permission/illness to get the baby earlier than that), but required more support from her peers. She sent me to as many doctors as possible to get them to agree with her on getting my ass cut up.
It was a Thursday and I was one day shy of 37 weeks when I went to the perinatal specialist (it was mainly for shits and giggles, since my doctor had managed to bump my date to the following Monday. She got this to happen because my bile acids test showed I was cholestatic, meaning my blood was poisoning my baby). As I was getting my ultrasound done, the tech noted the baby "had zero movement" which freaked everyone out at the office.
Little bean had been SUPER active my entire pregnancy, I first felt him at 10 weeks. By December, I could see his entire body ripping me up... however, lately he would only move at certain times of the day, not nearly as wildly.
I had a second ultrasound where the little bean finally moved, but caused the docs to put me on monitoring for an hour.
Little Bean went back to not moving.
After another half hour, the specialist came in with MY doctor on the phone and told me this shit made him nervous. He said he didn't feel comfortable letting me go home for the weekend with this type of issue going on.
After my six month visit, my doctor kept harping about stillbirth, and I remember it caught my attention because she never said this in my first pregnancy. Now at this perinatal appointment this was exactly what they were telling me.
After leaving me in the room alone for about ten minutes, I cried my eyes out... I could hear them discussing whether or not to have me rush over to the emergency room. I cried so fucking much, I threw up the apple-flavored Juicy Juice and ritz crackers they had given me for a snack.
When the doctor walked back in, he very calmly but sternly told me to go to my DOCTOR doctor, where they would continue the monitoring me.
Literally ten minutes into my appointment with my real doctor (it was supposed to be an hour-long monitoring session) they told me to pack my bags, I was going to deliver the baby the next day.
I cried again.
Wait, what? What is happening?
So... I went ahead and packed my shit for this sudden change of plans.
This time around I was prepared for what was to come. I didn't have to push. I didn't have to sit there and get induced. I walked into the hospital at 3pm, got checked in, changed into my robe, and waited for them to cart me out of my room at 4:15pm.
They had me getting my spinal tap around 4:20pm (this was a little different to the epidural. It sucked more). Baby was out at 4:34pm.
Wham, bam, thank you ma'am.
Recovery sucked again. I fainted in the bathroom while taking my first shower... scared the shit out of my nurses. I do remember sitting on the toilet and looking at my nurse saying "I think... I'm going to faint" and her laughing saying "Girl, you did. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You're ghost white." Then the other nurse that looked like Kourtney Kardashian complimented my eyelashes for being so naturally long, dark, and curled (Ma'am, that's sweet and everything, but I just don't want to die right now, yeah?).
I was able to go home after three days... even if I vomited a few times and felt radiating pain on my back and chest.
Two days out of the hospital I had those creepy, intense chills, as well as an annoying cough.

I couldn't take care of my babies because I was sick and didn't want to get them sick.
I also had massive, debilitating headaches for at least five hours of the day, every day.... for a month.

Yep. Those are my pregnancy/delivery stories.
Luckily I have cauterized my fucking tubes, so I know this will never happen to me again. I love the shit out of my kids... but FUCK ever doing it again.

A year's time

Well fuckity fuck... look what I'm doing.

I used to think I was busy a year ago... HA-HA-HAAA!
SO MUCH has happened and I am SO ANGRY with myself for not writing it up sooner. Now after all this time, much of the detail is gone.
Let's start with this one:
I have a baby. A little boy. An awesome little human with big eyes and a bigger smile and an even bigger attitude.

Baking him was the worst, ABSOLUTE WORST. I hear many, dare I say MOST, women mention how pregnancy is so awesome and how they glow and blah blah blah. Good for them... but FUUUUUUCK that shit. Pregnancy was THE WORST time of my fucking life. I was pregnant in mid-January, and by (Sunday, I remember this because I was at an Olive Garden celebrating my sister in law's birthday) February 19th I was puking my eyes out FOR THE REST OF MY PREGNANCY... every single fucking day. No joke.
That was the entry I was working on back in April 12th, 2019.
It's weird to read old entries and hear my voice in them.
I don't think I have much of that anymore.
Not many people told me about that "pregnancy brain" shit... it's so real. I lost so much of my fucking brain in these two fucking years of being pregnant, I'm not sure I'll ever be myself again.
As I type all this shit up, bits and pieces of my personality are coming back to me... it feels pretty good.

So, let's keep going with this Quarantine Journal.
What I was talking about up there was basically just going to evolve into me talking about all the shit pregnancy symptoms I had.
I've always claimed to be an anomaly, and pregnancy only proved it more so.
The first months of the pregnancy, around week 10, I started bleeding. Shit freaked me out.
"Shit, so I'm going to be one of those ladies who loses her baby," was all I could think.
Turns out I had a massive "subchorinoic hemorrhage" (getting pregnant taught me so many fucking new vocabulary words. I would have done way better in biology classes had I been pregnant while in college--No). "It hits about 3.1% of all pregnancies" they say... and I was a lucky one. It was basically nothing to worry about, just bleeding until the blood clot drained completely. In my case, it took about a month to clear.
Add to that the fact I mentioned of constant, non-stop vomiting. Every. Single. Day. I couldn't even think of food. Commercials for restaurants would ALWAYS send me running to the toilet to have my barf fest. Ordering food? It was the fucking worst thing you could ask me to do... the food on the menu would be the biggest trigger to my vomit. Eating? That was a no. I puked every damn thing I ate. I could only drink milk and mineral water, I could only eat BREAD and cheese. Not one fucking vegetable was tolerated. Not ONE.
That is no way to live.
I puked up until I fucking gave birth... I was pushing AND puking at the same time. It was as glorious as they show on tv.
I knew I had pre-eclampsia from around month 4. I was listed as "high risk" so I was constantly at the doctors getting check-ups. My biggest issue was protein in my urine, and my increasing blood pressure readings. I normally have really low blood pressure, but in the pregnancy my blood pressure would spike a little above normal.
In my last month of pregnancy, I gained 20 pounds in ONE WEEK... and that set off alarms for my doctor (she's the motherfucking shit). In total, I gained 60 pounds... not cool.
My little bean was measuring about two weeks ahead of schedule-- he was a big ol' baby. He was monitored three times a week the final month of my pregnancy because of my pre-eclampsia.
I would do urine tests every week (they are the fucking worst. You collect ALL of your piss for an entire day and keep it in your fridge. It's more annoying than it sounds) and blood tests sometimes twice a week.
My little dude was doing fine, I was the one fucking shit up... so my doctor decided to induce me at 37 weeks after seeing my liver enzyme levels charting way too high.
Now, I'm not someone who goes to the doctor, I never had health insurance growing up, so I was going into this blind as fuck. Sure, I studied this shit in college, but mammalian physiology wasn't my fucking thing. So being told my liver enzyme levels just made me shrug and say "Cool... so like, I'll be good after I get this baby out of me?" They assured me I would be.

So here we go, week 37, go time.
I went in Sunday night, and they did all of the inducing shit (so many hands in my vagina... so many objects in my vagina... why does no one tell you you're going to get so many people looking at and touching your vagina when you're going to have a baby? My fucking shyness went out the fucking door after the third nurse shoved her hand down there. Fuck it). Nothing was working. It was motherfucking Wednesday when the doctor finally said I was ready to go. I had only been feeling contractions for a few hours, but not bad ones. I only really started feeling pain when I was at a "6" dilation. They asked if I wanted an epidural, to which I agreed 'cause fuck it... I didn't want to know what vaginal tearing felt like. So they come in and do the epidural (I fucking feared this happening since I was in 6th grade)... I had to have the biggest nurse hold me down like I was a wild animal. Epidurals are gross... you feel that shit in your spine and they ask you to tell them when it's dead center-- really hard to do when all you want to do is squirm and cry.
After about an hour, I felt the pain getting far more intense. I finally asked the nurse checking my contractions if I was supposed to feel my contractions.
"You're at an 8... you're telling me you can feel them?!" I sat there and pointed out each contraction while she read them form the machine.
Turns out they fucked up my epidural... there was a "kink" in the line. SO.... here came epidural 2. In that case, it was fucking INSTANT when my legs went numb. It felt good.

Pushing time came around 8AM. I remember not feeling a fucking thing, I had to be told when to push. I pushed with all my might, and I could feel pressure in my vagina, but didn't think much. I just remember looking over at the clock and seeing it was 10AM.
Holy shit, I've been pushing for two hours?!
The doc told me she was going to give me some time to rest, she'd be back in an hour.
I wasn't tired, but my mom and husband were (my sister in law had left the room before I started pushing. I was mortified she was there because she was watching my naked ass getting poked and prodded all fucking night).
Pushing time part B came up and I pushed until 12pm, when my doc informed me my baby was "turtling" which is when they stick their head out and stick it back in. She said I had two choices: she was going to vacuum my baby out, which could lead to permanent damage to him, as well as multiple broken bones for him... or a c-section.
Who THE FUCK chooses a vacuum?? I didn't hesitate to agree to the c-section.
So they take me back and cut me up in an emergency c section where I was cracking jokes the entire time about how it felt like they were doing dishes in my torso. They pulled Baby out and to my surprise, I started crying.

So here's the baby, I do the three day recovery thing at the hospital and everyone's laughing.
Then on the third day, as I'm laughing with my favorite cousins and my aunt/uncle, I notice my ankles get HUGE-- they notice as well.
Nurses look concerned. I get blood work done. Shit goes south FAST.
As I'm getting ready to be discharged (I had been looking forward to it all day), a different doctor walks in looking very concerned and tells me I'm not going anywhere.
I was in the room with just my mom, since my husband and all of his family had left for dinner.
"Your lab work is very concerning. Your liver levels are in the 400's when they should be in the 10s. Your brain is swelling and you can fall into a coma any minute. We have to re-admit you and start emergency treatment now. We're changing you to a different room, don't worry, you baby will be able to stay with you," the doctor said.
That is the most shell-shocked I have felt in my life. I remember everything going silent and only being able to focus on the doctor.
BRAIN SWELLING?! COMA?! WHAT?!
It was all so bizarre because I had been feeling fine... just that weird swelling in my ankles.
Once the doctor left, I remember feeling the fucking heaviest, most enormous tears plop into my lap.
"What the hell is happening? Mom, I'm scared..." was all I could say before sobbing loudly.
My favorite nurses came into my room to help me walk over to my new room and they all looked SO SAD. They all liked me, they'd say I was a good patient because I was always so happy and funny... and now they looked like they too wanted to cry.
I went to my new room, had to get hooked up to all the shit they had just taken off (getting a fucking drip put in sucks on so many fucking levels... but not as much as getting the goddamned catheter shoved up your WhoHa), and the therapy began.
My room's temperature was dropped to something like 60 degrees and I still felt hot. They dimmed the lights and told me to sleep.
Me? Sleep? After being told I *might* slip into a coma? BITCH, NO.
I stayed awake watching so much fucking "Ridiculousness" and "The Jersey Shore," I can remember being disappointed thinking how shitty it was going to be that I was going to die having that shit be the last thing I ever watched on Earth.
I stayed at the hospital for an extra 2 days while they pumped me with magnesium sulfate for 36 hours. I was so fucking high the entire time, I remember it all with the coolest, saddest buzz.
I didn't improve until around hour 30, when the maximum amount of time I could be hooked up to that shit was 48 hours.
What killed me was seeing my husband's side of the family not take it as serious as it was.
The doctors had told me I had jumped from eclampsia to "HELLP Syndrome"... which meant nothing to me, but in one of the many hours of therapy, I googled it and scared myself shitless.
Everyone thought I was being dramatic, and that shit broke my heart. That fucked up, stupid fucking mentality that pregnancy and delivery is so easy pisses me the fuck off... and that's how my in-laws take it.
After this episode, I can honestly say my hostility toward the in-laws entered a new level.
I finally left the damn hospital a week after being admitted.

What followed was months worth of blood work and monitoring to make sure I didn't fall back into the swelling shit. Also battled around for a fucking gastroenterologist for my liver.
I was diagnosed with fatty liver and told I needed to return in August of 2019 for a check up to hopefully see some improvement.
Then June 2019 came around the corner and I found out baby number two was on its way.

Cue domestic violence.

Quarantine Life

I swear I have multiple drafts on here where I pick up on updating, then I just abandon it.

Obviously, a shit ton of things have occurred since my last entry (I don't even remember when my last entry was. I just logged on blindly and told myself I would write).

I've faced death twice... I want to say three times, but my fucking pregnancy brain has stuck around and has seriously deteriorated my memory (fuck that, it has deteriorated every damn thing about me).
I have two kids now... both boys... and I love them, they're great... but at the same time I now have zero time to myself and find myself worried about them entirely too much. Like... way too fucking much.

So this quarantine thing... yeah... good time to be alive with two little babies under 1.5 years old. Yeah, dawg, I did that. I fucking did that. Fuck.
Again, I love my kids... I just never thought I'd do this... I don't think ANYONE did, but I digress.
So anyway, back to the quarantine.
I was originally doing it since my last pregnancy (May-January) because I didn't want to catch the mean-ass flu that was going around, which was apparently insanely strong and not getting held back by the vaccine. From previous experience, the last fucking thing I wanted to do was have coughing fits while I had a huge-ass fucking gash in the middle of my stomach (it's actually just above the pubic area, but it still slices through your abdominal wall). I stayed the fuck away from everyone (also because I didn't want anyone to see my enormous ass. These babies were huge-- above average huge... "let me show my colleagues" huge).
Then came January 2020, where my baby had to be delivered in an emergency c-section because I developed cholestasis, and my dumbass body damn near poisoned my little baby. He was supposed to be here in February, but my body evicted him early-- it was the scariest moment of my life... I cried wildly at the doctor's office... alone... because that's how I did my pregnancy... fucking alone (I'm still married, but separated. It'll be explained later).
Now, about a week after having my baby (January 17th), I heard a rumor that a patient had been treated at the same hospital I had just left... treated for Covid19. I became a little worried, but since I wasn't too into checking the exact symptoms of the virus, I just did the whole "motherfucker better not have got me sick!" thing and moved on.
A week after that, I was plagued by the worst motherfucking headaches of my life. They would last at least 5 hours, every single day. Nothing was really triggering the headaches, they'd just strike randomly... debilitating as shit. I thought perhaps it was due to the spinal tap, but when I told my doctor, she said there was no reason for that to be happening to me so many days after delivering the baby. She told me to keep an eye on things. This lasted for a month... and the Motrin I was prescribed did jack shit to fix me. (They had also prescribed me Norco, but I stopped taking it after the second day after I suffered a horrible case of the chills. I spent one night of the most uncontrollable chills of my life, luckily my husband was there to control me, wrap me as warm as possible, and hug me tightly, reassuring me I'd be ok. The following day I still had some random chills. I blamed this on the Norco and immediately stopped taking them. I had no clue this was a symptom of Covid)
I also developed a cough for about three days... nothing out of the ordinary, just annoying. I had a TON of phlegm though, green mucus (I know this because I would spit up every single time I felt the mucus in my throat. I never swallowed it).
After seeing more information on this damn virus, I started wondering if maybe I had experienced it... but it's all so uncertain, because of the whole pregnancy recovery shit.

Aside from that little personal experience, I've been dealing with the worst case of anxiety of my life. I suffer panic attack every single day, though the last two days have been pretty good. I now worry about my babies... the thought of them getting sick fucks.me.up! I also worry about my parents. My father doesn't listen... and he still goes to work.
I read the news... too fucking much of it... and nothing fucking helps in calming me down.
So... I am pretty fucked up right now.

I'm hoping going back to writing will put me in a better headspace. Hopefully it will at least help me get me away from checking out news... I'll just try to get myself to remember things.

So here we go. I'm gonna try to be a little more ME than I've been in the last three years (I'm even listening to my music again... and I'm exercising again. I just want this fucking anxiety to leave me. Please leave me).
Let's see what this quarantine does for me.
Yey.

Oh shit, yeah, that quarantine thing... So I did it though my pregnancy, then immediately after my pregnancy, and right when I was about to get out into the real world, the government forced me back into quarantine.

Damn, pregnancy brain is fucking trash.

I'm the audience

Welp, look at that! I have time to update this thing after so many months.
My bad.

Life isn't slowing down. Life is actually getting hectic as shit and I'm dying for a breather.
Once in a while, I miss my old life. What I miss most is having the ability to workout as often as I did. I always took that shit for granted.
"Big deal. I workout every day, sometimes up to two hours... so what?"
Ummm... that's a big deal. And it was also a big factor in just HOW fucking athletic I actually was... but for stupid reasons, always underestimated ("stupid reasons" being other people convincing me it WASN'T a big deal. Motherfucker... it's a big motherfucking deal).
I'll occasionally see other chicks post "summer workouts" or "booty workouts" and feel immediate regret, since I could bust those moves out on the regular, no sweat.
I never fucking bragged enough. Poop.

Anyway. So right now we're in the middle of a custody battle.
Who would have thought those words would be coming out of my mouth two years ago?
Anyway, this whole thing has opened my eyes to how hideous these situations really are. I mean, I always saw them on television, in movies, read about them in books... but to live through it is another story. Sure, the kid isn't mine, but as an "outsider," I get to see the ugliness to it from a different perspective: as an audience.
I see the girl cry every day she has to go to her mom's. I see her chirpy, super social behavior drastically dip the moment "You go to your Mom's today" comes out of her dad's mouth. I see her in the mornings as she gets dropped off, crying as she hops out of her mom's car.
What the fuck is this woman doing to her kid to fuck her up so bad?
I see my dude try to console his daughter... I see his rage and frustration.
And I try to rationalize everything. But I can't.
The kid's mom is an animal... a selfish human being... a narcissist who is unable to see how badly she's impacting her daughter. That's my conclusion.
Then I see how the attorneys and judges approach family law. I see how skewed it is towards the mom... how she's given everything... and the dads get so fucked over. It's mind bowing.
You basically have to gave a police report or a hospital report proving the child was physically harmed by the mother in order for the court to even CONSIDER her a bad mother.
The dad can pay child support on time for years, never skip a payment... but somehow that's completely overlooked as a positive towards the father.
It's mind blowing.

The case isn't over, but after the first meeting, I felt sick to my stomach.
I don't feel sick for my dude, but his kid. The thought that she might get stuck living with her mom for good makes me sick. I feel for this child... if she gets take away by her mom, this kid's life will make such a flip to the negative, it'll haunt me for the rest of my life.
Poor baby.

So yeah. This new phase of my life... "adulthood," is ugly as shit.
I was totally on to something the entire time I refused to grow up to deal with adult issues... when I was convinced to stay single for life.

And life is only going to get crazier.

I just want to be silly again.

bye 2017

Well, FUCK! Looks like this year takes the cake for least entries ever.

Unlike other years, it wasn't due to absolute trash happening in my life.
... Umm... maybe I should rephrase it to say crazy bullshit went down... but like, no deaths happened.

I have been incredibly busy, most of the time trying to remain level-headed... or keeping others calm.
That's right, my time has been consumed by ME calming OTHER people... ME... the girl who is tight-wound and neurotic... I have been given the role of... assuager (is that even a word?).

I've been keeping secrets... trying to stick to just myself... internalizing as much shit as possible. I've known this year was going to be like this since the end of January, but it was a task I took on willingly-- I needed to do it.

I've also stayed away from here because I didn't know how to approach what has been happening in my life.
I am both ridiculously happy-- to a level I never thought was meant for me-- but I have also seen some pretty dark days. I have been terrified, I have cried my eyes out for an entire night, I have shivered myself to sleep, I have laughed my ass off, I have helped raise a daughter.

So... it's so much... so damn much. I don't know where to start, what road to take, when it comes to telling what has gone down this year. I can't even tell it completely, because I'm still in the middle of some fucked up shit.

2017 had me doing shit I swore I would never do.
It slapped the fucking shit out of my very cynical ass. It made me believe... it frightened me into believing.
I'm in love. I have a lobster... he wasn't dead after all.
I have a beautiful love story, but as I've always suspected, it is full of... scary shit.
There isn't complete happiness. I adore my guy... he is the best part of me... he adores me, the problem isn't there. There are certain issues going on in our lives that... prove to be quite large to overcome. It's scary... it has me crying often... and it has me wondering just why the fuck the world is so hellbent in seeing little ol' me in pain.
And the pain I feel isn't because it's happening to me... it's strictly happening to my guy and his family... and that shit has me hurting almost every day. It drains me because I try my best to keep THEIR spirits up... because I want them to believe that there is good in this world and that they are deserving of happiness... of goodness... and the cynical/pessimist side of me eats away at me with the "Who are you kidding, Mother Theresa? YOU know the word fucking sucks... cut it out." But I'm stubborn, and if it's in my power, I go and help.

But enough cryptic shit. I'll lay it out for now.
What do I call 2017? The year of MY LOBSTER!
Guys... I married the love of my life. The guy who had been looking for me since he last saw me in seventh grade, found me at the ends of 2016, and refused to let me go.
I'm no longer an "AnoMALIE"... well, I am, but not in the way I always saw myself.
I'm not 'married, married" because I've been having issues with my church. I've been going back and forth with them since April, only to find out THEY lost BOTH my baptism papers and first communion papers... and it's been a shitshow trying to sort all of that.
But I do live with my man... and his thirteen year old daughter.
The year has been a year of adjusting-- poorly. I drive back and forth between his home in Arizona, and Vegas.
... SO MUCH could be said... and will be said, once this time crunch to beat the new year is over.

Did I love 2017? Yes. Did I hate 2017? Yes.
So where do I place this year? What outweighs the other?
I'll mark it as a yes.

And now I beg 2018 to please be kind... because there's a huge storm heading my way... and I'm petrified to face it. One tremendous hurdle was jumped clean 2017, but the next one is a motherfucking monster with potential to destroy my man.
2018... be good to me... make me smile.... make me believe. 

It was meant for me

I was ready, convinced, to end it all the summer of 2015.
I planned the Eurotrip as a last hurrah.
... Let my eyes see Rome and Paris one last time...
What exactly made me hold on, I do not know... since the trip was a flop, considering the amount of times I found myself crying or publicly humiliated.

2016 served as a constant reminder of what a foolish, downright selfish deed suicide really is. So many friends and family endured horrible health tragedies, I spent most of 2016 feeling ashamed for my suicidal thoughts.
Then just as 2016 was pulverizing me with the possibility of losing my beloved aunt... my world was turned upside down by the sudden reappearance of an old... "boyfriend."
Facebook... fucking Facebook... I'm one of those now... someone who was found through the social media platform and... had her life changed.
November 2016 to now has been a whirlwind of motherfucking whirlwinds. I look back to old posts from years ago and wonder HOW THE FUCK IS THIS HAPPENING NOW?!
I've been so happy... but simultaneously so fucking scared... it has made me completely forget what 2015 even felt like... I can't remember what "fog" feels like.

I've been keeping all of this to myself... the stories, the memories, the cute conversations, the heart-melting stares, the visits, the days, the nights... just everything... to myself. I've never done that before. I find myself feeling bad for keeping so much to myself... when my sister or brother or best friend hear something for the first time (like when my brother found out I had a boyfriend... and WHO he was, he was in absolute shock for DAYS) I feel like shit for having kept them in the dark for so long. I just... I'm so scared of losing it, of losing what I have... like I always do... in motherfucking spectacular fashion... I feel the moment I speak of something so wonderful, it will leave my grip and leave me in the worst spot I've ever been.
I'm at such a high... an all-time high... a spot I NEVER thought I'd reach, that I was convinced was NOT meant for me... I'm certain losing it will be the end of me... I will have no way to recover from it... no way.
I've had many moments where I've quietly been embracing him... and have caught my conscience thinking "So this is what it feels like... this... this is what it feels like for someone to be as madly in love with me as I am with them?... this is beautiful..."
And then the negativity infiltrates my mind, the fear creeps in.
How is this going to get ripped out of my hands? When is it going to be stripped away?

I love him, and he loves me. It is insane how synched we are... it's even more insane how silent I have been about it, and how damn near no one knows about this giant step in my life... how I've managed to remain completely silent about it until now.

My life is so different now... and it's only going to further depart from my norm.
I didn't think I was meant to feel like this... to be loved like this... it's... I can't think too much about it or else I cry.

Burj Burj Burj

GUYS! GUYS!! HOLY SHIT, GUYS!

I... never in my motherfucking wildest dreams did I think I'd be experiencing the shit I've experienced in the last three months. I don't even know where to begin.
I have been wanting to write something up... but... good lord, it's impossible to contain the energy long enough to sit the fuck down for a minute or two to type shit up.

2017 has punched the fucking shit out of me, in the strangest way.... it has been a motherfucking Mack truck.

I want to say more, but I also grow scared and nervous that I'll fuck shit up.

I mentioned bracing myself for a horrible fall... and that shit has been hanging heavy in the back of my mind. I am at an all-time high, but I find myself unable to fully appreciate it because I know I'm going to find a way to trip and fall.
It's like... I made it to the fucking top of the Burj Khalifa-- zero safety railings or harnesses-- and I'm only preoccupied with looking down, knowing I'm going to fall down to a very gory death... instead of taking the time to appreciate the gorgeous sights around me and the amazing high of being able to reach that spot.

Eventually I'll talk more about it... when I'm comfortable and less paranoid about fucking up something awesome.

lobsters in a tank

It's like time stood still... like those 20 years didn't go by... the feelings are amplified.
I haven't been this happy in a very long time.
No one has looked at me like he does, spoken to me like he does, and much less touched me the way he does... as though I'm the most fucking precious object on Earth.

My lobster-- he's alive, and has found me. I have agreed to get caught in the same tank.

But this isn't a happy story... anything that ever has to do with me should never be considered a happy story.

I'm just trying to hold on to this feeling before the world collapses... like it always does... knowing full well that this time it will hurt worse than it ever has in the past.

... I jumped off that cliff with my motherfucking eyes closed.

Black Mustang

"I'm the black mustang," he texted.
I saw him through his tinted windows, and smiled... hopping out of my parked car.
I had been waiting about a minute, letting him know what part of the mall parking lot I was in.
He nervously stood in front of me, I immediately went in for the hug-- as tightly as possible.

"Jesus Christ... I haven't seen you since... seventh grade!" I said.
The smell of freshly blazed weed overtook my nostrils.
He bashfully kicked at the floor, hands in pockets, occasionally making eye-contact with my overly excited face.
"Oh my god... that is strong," I said as I cough a little.
"I knew it'd be a good idea to blaze before seeing you... you're fucking beautiful, I would have not been able to talk to you at all" he said.

I met up with 5thGradeBoyfriend today... and it was... so good... oddly very good... like... I... didn't even suspect it would feel this good.
He drove out from Arizona for the weekend, unbeknownst to me.
He was incredibly bashful, which was uncommon in the guy I always knew... he was a total bad kid last time I checked. I found myself in the awkward position of trying to make HIM feel comfortable... I was the one with the job of speaking... of asking questions... acting extroverted.
Often times, I'd come to a complete silence because I'd catch him through my periphery just gazing at me... a gaze I've never felt, really... the goofiest, dopiest... most... lovestruck gaze I've ever seen anyone throw my way. It was like live-action Bambi... the twitterpated part.
"Ummm... Hiiiii, *5thGBF*!" I'd say, waving while smiling.
"I'm sorry... I just..." he'd say.
"It's really me... I'm here, in the flesh," I said, grabbing his hand with mine, showing him I was really there.

The way he looks at me... it's... it'll follow me for life. He has always looked at me that way... like I'm... some fucking mirage of his wildest dreams come true... not a lusty dream, just... a calm, joyous dream... if that makes sense. There is no perverse lust in his look... or judgement... it's... such a lovely feeling... I can't explain it... I just, never thought anyone out there would be able to look at me that way... like... I'm being worshipped... like I'm the best fucking thing the universe could have placed in their tracks.
Like I am a motherfucking heavenly mirage, damn it.

I'd look down and blush... smiling when the quiet admiring of my face (and it was just my face... not my tits, or legs, or ass... he'd examine every inch of my face with the most tender glance... Jesus, it gives me goosebumps) would last too long.
"Whaaaaat?" I'd finally whine.
"You're just... so much prettier... I didn't think it could be possible... you're... so perfect. Everything about you is so perfect," he said one of the times.
There was a hint of melancholy in his speech... like his regrets over his bad decisions would get the best of him. The guy carries a lot of sadness... and he's genuinely shocked that I would insist on staying friends with him, on being with him.
"Aren't you ashamed of being seen with me?" he asked.
"Why would I?" I asked.
"Like that white dude. He's clearly wondering what a nice girl like you... in your Audi, is doing talking to a... lowlife like me," he said.
My heart broke.
"I don't give a shit what he thinks. Your heart is kind and kept me sane during a time I felt at my loneliest" I said.

We talked for two hours... in my car, in the parking lot of a mall... my flowery scent mixing with his lingering weed fumes... and that shit felt like heaven.

The way he quietly admired my face... I'll never forget that.