Depression

...sucks.

That's really all I have to say, but I'll likely ramble anyways about whatever escapes from my fingers onto this post by use of the keyboard.

In no particular order:

I miss my dad. He's been dead now for just over four years, but I've not gotten to hang out with him in 10. Sure we talked on the phone a few times & wrote a few letters back and forth, but it wasn't the same. See, my dad spent the last 6 years of his life sitting behind bars. He was given a 30 year sentence for a crime I don't believe he committed. Of course the argument stands that if he didn't commit it then he wouldn't have been given a 30 year sentence, not in this day & age...yea, our judicial system is so upright where innocent folks aren't locked away & the guilty are that - guilty. I mean, just look at the whole Casey Anthony or O.J. Simpson things, right?

I rest my case.

I've tried really hard over the last 10 years to wrap my brain around it to the point that it's so wrapped I think it's just warped instead. I really don't want to believe either side. If I take my dad's side of things and defend him, well, I've lost a great deal of close relationships because I did take his side. If I take his accuser's side then I am compelled to be completely disgusted with my father, but also betray what my heart & mind tells me. The most fucked up part of all that is I may not be quite so conflicted about it had some folks not been so adamant that my dad was completely innocent...until my grandparents both died. It was almost immediately upon their deaths that all these folks, who'd supported my dad, bailed on him, trash talked him, and to this day paint him as the worst kind of scum to walk the planet. Of course his accuser went from just a spoiled little brat trying to get what she wanted to the patron saint of all that's right but wrong in the world, a poor innocent victim. Fuck her.

I miss the children that I birthed that were born with barely a fighting chance at life. Dear Alonna was a victim of doctors not putting all the pieces together & me being so utterly depressed I barely made it through the last half of my senior year of high school. Her father, my first husband, was killed in a car wreck days after we'd gotten married. During our short marriage, because I was a FIRM "virgin until marriage" person, I conceived her. Between severe depression, ulcers, stress, school, work, family life, God only knows what all ailed me at that time, doctors had me on a nice little cocktail of medications to treat each and every ailment. No heed was paid to the notion I could have been pregnant. Hell, I didn't even think anything of it. I still had bleeding from time to time, I didn't pay that close attention to timing and all that because I wasn't having sex...had only had sex twice, and it was in wedlock. Teenage pregnancy doesn't happen except out of wedlock, right? OH, YES, I was a naive one back then. She was born in December...in fact she, Mikaila & my Grandpa all share the same birthday, December 13th. My pregnancy wasn't confirmed until after I'd fallen down a flight of stairs just a few weeks before. The fall down the stairs wasn't detrimental to her, even though I'd like to blame something so innocent on the loss of her life. No. She was born with very underdeveloped organs or holes in the organs that did develop due to all the different medications I had been on during the majority of my pregnancy. I was given the option to have a late-term abortion, but I wouldn't hear of it! What kind of fucking moron suggests such a thing to an 18 year old gal who's not only lost her husband & best friend since preschool, but is now finding out she's PREGNANT and VERY near her due date, just mere weeks after her parents told her to "Get your dog, your computer, don't forget your hamster & the rest of your shit & get lost?!" Simply because she wasn't paying enough of the bills anymore because she was trying to move out into her own place... Then of course I had her, without the first drop of pain medication, because I was scared out of my fucking gourd after learning about all the medications I had been on for the previous 9+ months. I still, to this day, have issues with taking medications & hesitate going down stairs... I PLEADED with the doctors & nursing staff to pull a miracle out of their asses. I don't blame them. They tried. For 14 hours they worked to sustain her. Reflecting on it 11 years later now, pieces of me wish I would have saved them each that grief. It's not the loss of Alonna that haunts me so much as the looks on the doctors' and nurses' faces as they not only tried to console me but also make my miracle come true. Thing that haunts me further is the stigma that "we don't talk about that".

Then there was Bridgett. I got pregnant with her almost immediately after Mikeal was born. Ok, not completely immediately, but I'd gotten my first depo shot after he was born, then my ex husband was thrown in jail for attempting to rape a 5 year old...I was given a lame story about how this little girl had walked in on him while he was peeing in a laundry room and it was just some messed up misunderstanding & all he was guilty of, from the early stories I was told, was indecent exposure. I did what any scared, almost 21 year old girl who's been horribly abused by her husband & no one there to support her, except him, with a 4 month old...I believed him & by my upbringing I stood by him. During the early hoopla of all that I missed my appointment to get my next depo shot, was pregnant when I finally did get a chance to make-up that appointment. I hid that pregnancy for as long as I could during the court proceedings. On our anniversary, in June, I was 23 wks along I shared the news with my ex. He responded by beating the shit out of me & throwing a 27" TV at me...back before they were just 10lb pieces of plastic. Then he left to go smoke some meth with his cousins down the road. ((My naive ass didn't know a thing about any of that until well after the fact.)) I carried my 10 month old son & drug my bleeding ass to a neighbor's house, where the lights were on...it was only about 2am...and they called an ambulance for me. All I really remember was about 24 hours later I was being released from the hospital & that my baby girl had died. I did file a police report. All that got me was a rap for being a troublemaker & liar by the police department. Afterall, the Lieutenant's adopted son would NEVER do such a thing! I made the whole thing up!

I'm proud of the fact that I went to the meeting with his lawyer not long after that...I heard the confession tape for myself & learned the whole truth behind the charges. He'd picked a 5 year old girl up from an apartment complex, took her into a laundry room there, & considered having sex with her before some of the effects of the meth & alcohol he was on wore off just enough for him to let her go. I then spent the next few weeks charming my ex. I'd swear up and down how I'd be there for him & I'd never screw him over, yada yada yada yada yada. He was given a 4 MONTH sentence with only 4 years probation. On September 22nd he was booked on the charges...I left from the courthouse, with his ATM & credit cards in hand, & wiped those suckers clean, including the overdraft privileges. I sold what clothes of his that were left over from my brothers picking through them, I didn't make the first one of his vehicle payments, then I broke every fucking rule that bastard had laid upon me of what I wasn't allowed to do while he was incarcerated. I'd then write him letters telling him about how I started smoking, was going out to the bars, sleeping with whatever I felt like, doing whatever I liked. That $900 wedding ring set he'd bought me & still had a nice balance on - sold them for $175...then had a GRAND time at the bar....at least I think it was grand. I woke up in the bed of the truck, somewhere. ((Mikeal was safe at a babysitter's, who knew/understood/something to that effect my mental state of mind at that time.))

A few months later, on Mother's Day, I called Child Services on myself. I was in a desperate state of mind and was under the impression that they'd at least help me. I was suffering from alcohol addiction, was basically homeless, and well...it was bad. Know what child services did for me? Nada. Told me that because I had the presence of mind to call them that it meant that I was a good mother and could figure it out & didn't see Mikeal as being in any real danger. I BEGGED and PLEADED with them to PLEASE place him in a safe home & to help me get into a treatment program. They didn't. The next day I left Mikeal in the care of my 'less than fit roommate'...while he was passed out drunk (not Mikeal, the roommate) and got a job a few blocks away, working graveyard shift at Waffle House. Thankfully I had some awesome coworkers that let Mikeal & I move into their one bedroom apartment...then instead of going out to the bars I joined a chatroom.

I met a TON of very wonderful folks in that chatroom, and minus a few details, I moved from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Austin, TX, to move into a house with a complete stranger. Folks down there would drive an hour one direction to help me get out and look for a job, others would watch Mikeal for me, one guy gave me a car...I met Brian during all of that...yada yada...I sobered up, mostly, and my mother grew up a bit. I went back and lived with her for a while so I could get my divorce taken care of 100%, then moved back to Texas, eventually reconnected with Brian again, he proposed at my dad's funeral dinner, we went back home, in Texas, pregnant, yada yada...we've been married almost 4 years now with a Mikaila added to our family.

My ex is still a complete asshole.

My current marriage, like any other, has it low points, but overall it's awesome. I love where I live now, I love my friends, & tolerate most of my family, but I'm completely in admiration of my children and husband! But yet I still feel depressed. The logical side of me says I have no reason to be depressed. There's nothing I can do about the death of these loved ones, I know that having another child isn't going to replace any of the ones I've lost. I can't pinpoint a reason behind my depression. I'm mostly 'at peace' with the trauma my past inflicted upon me, but then every once in a while it just completely blindsides me and throws me for a complete loop and I don't even know what to think. The littlest thing can set it off and big things won't even phase me. I constantly feel like I'm swimming in a black hole that is devoid of everything, but yet I can see that I'm surrounded by all these folks that I know love & care about me and I just feel empty, withdrawn, and sad. But mostly angry.

The anger bothers me the most.

I'm absolutely justified to feel the anger. I can't think of many folks who wouldn't blame me for completely lashing out at some folks who have caused this anger. But at the same time I'm better than that. I feel guilty for having this anger. I want to just let go of the anger but I can't. I can for short periods. Most of the time I don't even notice it lingering. I don't want to be angry. I don't like feeling this way. This in turn makes me not like myself. And the cycle starts again. I've done decent, in my mind, with coping with it. I've gotten better. Stronger. But it's still there, haunting me. I know it's effected persons around me, I try to keep it hidden, to keep it a secret...because it's just not one of those things we talk about... I don't even know how to talk about it. I don't know how to fix it. Sure I can repress it and pretend it doesn't exist...for a while. But I'm not comfortable with that and that fuels my anger, just in more directions.

I don't know what to do at this point. I'm not even sure I even know what I WANT to do. I just know that my head isn't always healthy & it may never be fully healthy...but I also don't want to go through the rest of my life with this anger hoovering over me.

This grown-up shit is hard.


~*~Then of course I'm searching for info that I need, again, for my assignment, that was erased by Windows' need to fucking update without warning and restart without allowing me to save any work I'd worked SOO fucking hard on...and I run across this blog post. I needed it. I'm going to start working on setting the tone to my own happiness & fulfillment...by starting on #3, especially.~*~

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Fire Pit of Reasons....#1-4

...for my giraffe legs staying firmly on the ground. ☺ (I'd add pictures, but Blogger isn't cooperating at this time.)

Inspired by the Lovely JC of The Animated Woman (@LittleAnimation) & my comment on her Thrill Ride Adventures. :)

From a young age, VERY young age I learned that being off the ground can have some very dire consequences....Since then there have been many events that have only worked to help ingrain that into my brain, just as I think I'm starting to get brave enough to leave the comfy Earth.

Instead of ending this post with a disclaimer or other such 'you shouldn't pay attention to this tale' I'm going to start with a list of warnings & disclaimer:

* If you are severely scared of heights you probably shouldn't read any further.
* If you have children you may not wish to continue.
* If you have a tendency to take someone else's mishaps and apply them as possibilities in your own life and react accordingly you probably shouldn't proceed either.
* Please advance with caution if you have a heart condition, are pregnant, or other known or unknown health issues that may be direly afflicted by reading these highlights.

All stories you are about to read are the complete truth by my knowledge, my mother can back up at least 75% of these stories, medical records & child services reports can back up almost as many...and the rest, NEVER tell my mother about, she'd KILL me. ((Okay, so if you read my entry that was a Tribute to my Father you'd likely be close to right in your guess that by now my mom likely already knows all these stories, but lets not remind her of them, that would be best for my health.))

Now that that's out of the way I'm hoping you did take me seriously with my warnings...these tales of "Reasons Stephanie Does NOT do Heights" is not for the faint, weak stomached, or otherwise paranoid type persons.

Disclaimer: *I* have never broken a bone, NOR have I ever received a single stitch (outside of ones necessary to deliver my children via cesarean)...my siblings on the other hand, well....Lets just say I can learn from the mistakes of others.

Stick in the FirePit #1:
*Setting the stage* I am 2 1/2 years old. My brother, Daniel, is 15 months old. My mother is 8 1/2 months pregnant with my sister, Samantha. We are living in a trailer house, on a Navy base 1200+ miles from family, in South Carolina - family is in Arkansas. The year is 1984.

It's a bright, beautiful day in September and after a long day of doing some near last minute shopping, preparations for the new baby sister, and hours waiting on Daddy to get back to land (he's out on the submarine, had been gone for about 6 months and was supposed to be in that day, ended up being delayed by a few hours) Mom decides to take her two toddlers home for an afternoon nap and to take a nap herself.

She gets her two blonde haired blue eyed angles in their beds in the room they share, checks to ensure they have actually settled down for their afternoon nap, then retires to the couch in the living room. If her darling angels should happen to get up from their nap before Mom gets up from hers she'll be able to hear them and also be easily found in case they need her.

*cue Jaws theme music*

The darling, angel faced toddlers decide that they're too excited to fully take a nap, lay there for a few minutes or so, then decide they want to go outside to go play, naptime is over for them! They go out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, but what do they find, but their mother snoring soundly on the couch! The door is locked and upon disturbing the slumbering mama find that she's resistant to the pleas to go play outside. So these darling children look for something to occupy themselves with...they enter the forbidden bedroom. The room is bare outside of a few pieces of furniture for the new baby - the perfect room to play in.

After a small fraction of time has passed by it is discovered that the window is open! ahhh! Fresh air! AND??? An escape route. See, the slumber mama is in the other room and has not yet caught onto the fact that her sweet angels are even in this room - now is the PERFECT time to go play outside.

Being the awesome big sister that she is the eldest of the two children is able to reach & see out the window - green grass & yard toys are just on the other side - she pushes the screen out of the window, easy peasy!

Now, everyone knows that if you go first the younger siblings are always bound to tattle tale, so being the concientious big sister that she is, she gave her little brother a boost so that he too could go outside, seeing as he's not able to reach the window by himself just yet and there's no handy climbing apparatuses available. She lifts him up, pushes him up by his feet, and out he goes - KERPLUNK! Head first into the...remember we're in a trailer house...hitch of the trailer. Now it's the elder sister's turn to go outside...except she realizes a few moments later that she may be tall enough to reach & see out the window she's completely unable to actually climb out the window itself.

The big sister does what any noble sibling does when faced with such a catastrophe - she runs and tells Mom: DANIEL IS OUTSIDE!!! I WANNNA GO OUTSIDE! IT'S NOT FAIR!

This rouses the slumbering mama - she's up!!! SUCCESS!!! Outside we go. And I think that's likely the first time I really remember getting in what could be considered a "shitton" of trouble for helping out one of my siblings. Daniel ended up needing 62 stitches to close the gash in his head - 27 years or so later he still lives...

BUT I learned a VALUABLE lesson that day - Windows are not good substitutes for doors, especially if they're up off the ground.

((You REALLY don't wanna know how over the next few weeks his eyes also ended up in bandages because that same older sister thought she'd be helpful & give him a bath - with liquid laundry detergent while also helping Mom & Dad bring in the groceries...or how a few days after that, while not only was his head still bandaged, his eyes bandaged, and his hands basically taped & bandaged so he didn't tear off the other bandages, his sister helped him out the front door, resulting in him falling down the concrete steps, thus busting his nose & knee....HEY, we were in a hurry that day - Mom was in labor & Dad was finally home!!))

See, all that was PROOF that from an early age I was a VERY helpful big sister and despite all my great intentions I got into a LOT of trouble all because of my younger siblings.



Stick in the Fire Pit #2:
*Scene Set* A few years have gone by, Dad is no longer in the Navy, we're in the middle of building our first house. There are three children now, a fourth is on his way. Children are ages 5, 3, 2, & 6 months gestation. We're living at Grandma's house, just up the hill from where our house is being built by my Dad, my Godfather & some high school buddies of Dad's. Mom is working 40 hours a week at a night shift job, so we're left in the care of Grandma, her husband, and our Schizophrenic Bi-polar Aunt (before medications worked to actually HELP someone with schizophrenia/bi-polar live a normal life). Daniel & I were both in Head Start just down the road, by the airport.

It was a BEAUTIFUL spring day - my 5th birthday in fact. My last year at the Head Start, I was moving up to Kindergarten in the Fall! It was an EXCITING day - FINALLY 5! Like every 5 year old who is told she can do/have anything she wanted I completely believed all these adults, I trusted that when they said that they meant it. So of course, during recess reading hour, with the huge monkey bar thing that 20 some off kids could climb all on at the same time even, I knew that day was going to be the day I could climb up to the very top & sit in the lovely pockets created by the tarp that had been draped over it to discourage climbing & create shade underneath. I enlisted the company of some of my classmates, because really, who wants to hang out alone at the top of such an awesome device! We head up there.

First to the top wins! We (my two buddies & I) were almost halfway up, just to the edge of the tarp when the teachers caught sight of us and instructed us to get down RIGHT NOW! I obliged, I wasn't one for breaking rules, even if it was my birthday. I climbed down & slipped myself back into the group that was sitting, quietly, under the tarp, on the grass. Friend K & A continued the quest, because you know, first to the top wins! A few rungs later & another warning scold from the teacher Friend A comes back down, tearing a small rip in the tarp as she does so. Friend K continues...she's one to do this every day, she's not going to let a little bit of trouble stand in her way of winning this race to the top.

She makes it. Chooses the square she wishes to recline in, nothing the teachers can do about it until she's ready to come back down, they have 40 some off other preschoolers to keep in line and there's only 5 or 6 of them, total, and sits there in the hammock of the tarp.

If I were to guess I'd say these squares ((err, rectangles)) are roughly 2 foot by 18 inches. That day we got to tour a fire truck in the playground. See, the tarp finished ripping as she was laying in the square hammock...the top of this jungle gym/monkey bar thing was roughly 10 feet in the air...and there hung Friend K....by one knee and holding on by one hand. Forget any desire I EVER had of EVER even THINKING about attempting to beat anyone up that thing! The panic & screams & utter chaos just did me in. I learned something very valuable that day as well - I don't care for the limelight all that much and thankfully I had the good sense to listen to the teacher & get down from there or it could have been me...and I was a toothpick kid back then I don't think I would have been so lucky.

((My dad, since he was one of the main parent volunteers, took down the upper portion of that thing over the weekend. My punishment for being one of the ones who'd attempted that climb, besides being the daughter of the guy who tore down the most awesome playground toy ever, was I had to pick up all the nails I could find out of the yard around the house that the guys were done putting the shingles on.))

Stick in the Fire Pit #3 & #4:

*Stage set* We're a bit older now, Mom is no longer pregnant, I'm about 8 years old, Daniel is about 7, Samantha 6, Duke is 3. My mom has a younger half-brother who is only about 6 years older than me, so he was in that weird early teenager phase of life. He was into skate boards, had an awesome bike, the works! He even had a water bed! WAAAAAAYY COOOL! ((Have I ever mentioned that I was a COMPLETE tomboy when I was a kid? No? Ok, well, I'll mention that now, I was QUITE the tomboy growing up.)) Other useful tidbit for this story:
My parents were absolutely into skating, we were at the roller rink at least once a week - they met at the skating rink, they were AWESOME skaters, but by this time (mid-80s) roller skating was something old people did - you know, folks my parents' age (25 & 27 at the time) and I ABSOLUTELY SUCKED at roller skating. My toothpick, giraffe like, one day I'm going to be a basketball star, everyone knew it, legs just REFUSED to coordinate well enough to be able to operate rollerskates, so I spent most of my time on my butt and being ran over (stick #3).

I thought my Uncle S was the COOLEST person EVER. He had all these awesome things and he lived in town, which meant the road was paved & basically flat, as opposed to the dirt road hill we lived halfway down. He had a skateboard, which was the coolest of the coolest things EVER. It was a skateBOARD - absolutely totally different than individual rollerskates, where my feet would go three different directions, on a skateboard though, my feet would be together, on the same flat surface, with one occasionally even touching the ground, not under the power of the wheels. Despite MANY pairs of ripped jeans, knees, elbows, and the occasional face plant I was determined to conquer this cool thing. ((What the hell are these helmets, knee pans, & elbow pads that you're thinking of?!))

Ok, horrible thoughts about my parents not caring enough about our safety to ensure that their children, who owned neither bikes nor skateboards, and this was like 1990, parents, at least mine, hadn't started the whole hovering movement yet, and onto the reason why this warrants mention in my 'fire pit of reasons'....

It has already been established that I have giraffe legs. At this point in time I've not yet hit puberty, so they're still toothpick giraffe legs. I was 8 and stood 5'2" tall and weighed maybe a whole 60 pounds. By this time it is well documented & known that I have the grace of a newborn giraffe, on the side of a mountain, even if the surface is flat. I think it has also been established that I have an uncanny desire to help other folks and I rarely do anything all by myself. What you don't know yet is that directly across the street from my grandfather's house there is some construction going on. This construction is work to put in a rain runoff ditch for that part of town - basically a manmade concrete & railroad tie creek, roughly 5 feet deep.

Remember too that I am only about 8 years old...my uncle was 'keeping an eye on us' playing in the street, folks & grandparents are inside doing whatever adults do when they're only having to really entertain a 3 year old and the other 4 kids (ages 14, 8, 7, & 6) are outside, playing in the street, that is under construction, with no construction workers out there, because it's the weekend and we have a skateboard and a 10 speed bike.

Now, this is before 'extreme sports' was televised or even popular...more one of those things 'punk inner city kids' who were into things like drugs and causing trouble were into, not your typical suburban or country farm kids. So there's no reason to assume that because there are ramps, etc laying around from the construction going on that these kids would ever dream of even attempting such stunts. This is my testament that kids really don't have to be influenced by the television to think of things....

We constructed our own ramps & created dares to go with our obstacle courses. The bike is really too big for anyone to operate even remotely correctly except for the 14 year old uncle and he determines that it would be best that we (the younger kids) should use the skateboard. Since he lives right here he's practiced these jumps and such. I still haven't managed to figure out how to keep my butt or knees off the ground, but I'm POSITIVE I can stand on the board while going down a ramp into a 5 foot deep hole in the ground, it's really not that far.

I get the momentum up...things are going great. I hit the ramp. No, seriously, I hit the edge of the ramp, the board stops. I do not. Stupid inertia & gravity combination! But because I have such WONDERFUL control over what my feet & legs do I see the imminent fall & possible injuries coming towards me, so I pull a stunning move to get off the board in the same moment that it crashed. Then, in super slow motion, it might have taken me AT LEAST 15 minutes to make that fall, my foot gets tangled in one of the cinder blocks laying there that we had moved to help build our ramp. I am dangling there, foot in the block above, my head roughly a foot above the concrete floor of this new drainage ditch. After a bit of 'creative ingenuity' my uncle & siblings are able to get me back up to the street level. Nothing broken!

Lesson I learned that day: I can't do anything that entails wheels under my feet. My reasoning is that my legs are just too long, lanky, & just are unable to coordinate cooperation with the rest of my body to keep me upright. Even into my adult years now I am retaught this lesson, except I've not bothered with roller skates, blades, or skateboards...I can face plant to the ground by just walking across flat, clean surfaces while barefoot & sober.

So, this is installment number one in my series of fire-pitted reasons my giraffe legs & I just don't shouldn't leave the safety of the Earth. You can also read here about how even my bouncing blue eyed 3 year old has even jumped on the bandwagon of reconfirmation of my stand to stay, well, standing, on the ground.


I'm only up to age 8 in this installment. Age 10 & 11 are real winners, but I won't put them in this post. I'm sure your health & sanity thank me.

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On the First Day Of Christmas....

In 2006...

Mikeal, my eldest son, had a visit with Santa. Not just any visit, but his first 'real' visit. He was four years old at the time. Young enough to believe and old enough to respect the power of the office of "Santa".

It was innocent enough. I'd taken him to the family Christmas Party where I worked. He played in the bounce house outside with my supervisor's grandkids, he snatched cookies and candy canes from anyone who offered him one. Then when the big man finally arrived he waited his turn to share his Christmas wish.


It happened to be a moment of truth. A moment for believing again. The very moment that changed my life forever....even if at the time I didn't realize it.

See, I didn't grow-up with Christmas trees or Santa...at least not in the sense that kids are accustomed to growing up with them. My family was dirt poor. Our house, although built brand new, when I was 5, did not have plumbing. My parents did not have the money to have a well dug on the property and city water stopped at the top of the hill. So every Saturday my mom hauled all of our laundry to the laundromat to wash it. On every Sunday we filled 50 some-odd 5-gallon buckets, with lids, full of water from my either of my grandparents' houses. We cut down trees all year long off our property so that we could have firewood to stay warm all winter. We raised our own hogs, goats, chickens, and rabbits that we would collect milk and eggs from and butchered the rest as they grew large enough. Every Spring we'd sell the new babies. My parents weren't disabled, in fact they both had decently paying jobs. They just weren't terribly responsible. They hadn't really been taught how to properly manage their money. Then, having four children, within the first 5 years of their marriage, did not help a great deal either...my dad was 25 when my baby brother was born, my mom only 23.

Back to my Christmas point...

I can solidly remember only ever having two Christmas trees, ever, growing up....I know we had one the year my sister was born, I was 2.5, but I only know that because of the pictures of the three of us standing in front of the tree...myself, my younger brother, and my sister. I don't remember that tree. The first tree I do remember us having I was 10. My parents had dug it up out of the woods of our property and placed it in a 5-gallon bucket. I remember decorating it with a crocheted string that I had made - I'd learned how to crochet a little bit a few months before. We'd also made the few ornaments that were put on the tree that year. Charlie Brown would have been proud. We had a variety of gifts that year. My parents had signed us up for Angel Tree gifts that year. I already knew about the truth behind Santa...many years of disappointment of going back to school without my own grandiose stories to tell had already jaded me. That year though my faith in my parents rekindled a bit.

The next year we also had a Christmas tree. It caught fire a few days before Christmas. 'Fortunately' the only substantial damage was to the tree and gifts that were under the tree. It was a bit disappointing, but I don't remember it really being a bad experience.

The following year we moved to Oklahoma, in with my paternal grandparents. My Papa was an over the road truck driver and he always managed to be able to be home around Christmastime, so all of the family seemed to be around for that. That was also the first year my Granny stopped doing Christmas and Christmas trees. She'd renewed her faith and was starting to live her life back according to the beliefs of Jehovah's Witnesses. It didn't bother me. I actually welcomed the lifestyle. Learning the 'real' truth behind the various secular holidays and customs was liberating in a way. I no longer felt like I was burdened by knowing God, but being financially incapable of serving him 'correctly' by not having lavish Christmas celebrations and the like. I do harbor a guilty conscious about not still practicing, but this isn't the time or place for that, not right now.

I didn't have another Christmas tree until Mikeal was 2. I was 22. That Christmas absolutely sucked. I'd finally started getting my life back in some sort of order after leaving my ex and going through a massive bout of depression. I worked my tail off to buy a fake pre-lit 6ft tall tree, complete with a skirt, garland, silver and red balls, as well as some silver bows. The tree was simple, but it was beautiful. The reason it sucked, you ask? I had left Oklahoma and moved to Texas. No big deal in itself, but my ex-in-laws made a huge stink over it when I'd left in August, taking me to court in September, then again in October. At the October hearing I agreed to let them have Mikeal every other month, for a month. I was still trying to play that game 'nice'. In November, when I should have been back up there to pick him up the clutch in my '96 Galant went out...it took the transmission shop from the 2nd of November until the 23rd of November to 'find' the part - a fly wheel. The only reason I they 'found' the part was that Friday, before Thanksgiving, I got rather pissy about their jacking me around. The repair bill was already well over $900 that I didn't have, then add in the $30 a day, one way, for cab rides back and forth to work...thankfully different friends did lend a hand in that department, as they could. I started calling various parts shops in the area. It was after 5pm, on a Friday. Within 15 minutes I had placed only 3 phone calls and all three places that I had called had the part, in stock, for $75. I threw quite the 'bitch fit' on Monday morning, before Thanksgiving, to the transmission shop. My car was ready for me to drive off in by the close of business on Wednesday, at noon. I paid the 50% of the bill that they required that I pay before I could drive my car off...and over the next few months ran that company through the ringer for their shady business practice with me. I ended up getting that original 50% back from them, without having to pay a dime. However, because of the extreme expense involved with just trying to get my car fixed I was unable to pick Mikeal up that week. So arranged for him to spend a few days over Thanksgiving with my mom and sister, then they 'returned' him back to my ex-in-laws. I was going to pick him up around Christmas. My depression started reeling me back in.

The night before I had planned to make the 10 hr drive up to pick up Mikeal - I had half a shift to work the next morning, then was leaving immediately from work - my sister sends me a message over YIM. My ex-mother-in-law had called her and told her that she was planning on taking Mikeal up to Kansas City to visit his child raping father, in the halfway house and that they were leaving in the morning. I immediately called the work voicemail line and left a message that I wasn't going to be into work the next morning because of this. I made that 10 hour drive in less than 6. I was told, by the ex-mother-in-law, that they were flying out at 8am. I drove straight to the airport in Tulsa. NO ONE at the airport had seen either of them, my mom, step-dad, sister, her fianceé, and myself all scoured every inch of that airport and grilled every security officer there. Not one sign of them, anywhere. I called up my ex-mother-in-law again, it was now 9am. She gave me the story that they'd decided to take a bus instead to Kansas City. I flew across town to the bus station. No one there had seen either of them either, not that they were all that convincing. I was in full dead pissed off panic at this point. I did not want to wait another few weeks to see my son! I had already jeopardized my livelihood at this point by not being at work that morning - it was mandatory - show-up or be fired. I was not going back empty handed without my son! I went out to where my ex-mother-in-law had been living. Her car was there...parked right there in the street, complete with its forged paper tag. Her sister answered the door, but claimed to not know where Drucilla was, nor Mikeal. I called the police again at this point. An officer came out, talked privately with the ex-aunt-in-law, came back and told me that because there were no custody papers then there was nothing he could do. Said that because my ex-who was, if you'll remember, in a halfway house, another 8 hours away, gave his mother permission to keep Mikeal then there was nothing I could do about it. The ONLY way I'd be able to do anything at all about it is if Mikeal was there physically and he wasn't going to go in and search the house for Mikeal.

I was utterly defeated. Shy of doing something that would land me in jail my hands were tied...and going to jail would not serve my purpose either.

I slept for a few hours at my mother's house before heading back home, completely drained and defeated. Fortunately my employer was sympathetic and I did not lose my job or holiday bonus.

The friends I had left in the Tulsa area were awesome over the next few weeks. They'd take turns staking out the place my ex-mother-in-law was staying. On January 6th I got the call around 9am that one of them had seen Mikeal there and that he was in fact staying there again and that it did not look like they were going to be leaving anytime soon, but if he did happen to leave that they'd follow him and keep tabs until I was able to be there, in person. The timing had sucked because I wouldn't be getting my paycheck until later that evening, at the end of my shift. A friend of mine, at the time, offered to pay for the trip, and off we went...with both her and her own 2 year old in tow. The trip took almost 8 hours this time...still a few hours shy of the 10 hour 'normal' drive, but she had a 'short' cut that had me going all over the freaking state. I showed up where Mikeal was at though, so that was a moot point in the end. I showed up close to 10pm. They were all there waiting on me. My ex-MIL, her sister, and a friend. Now, I'm not a small woman by any means. I stand 6ft tall and even when I'm sporting a loose size 10 pair of jeans still weigh over 200lbs. These three women were each individually three times my size, despite being a foot shorter than myself...not to fail to mention the fact that two of them (ex-MIL & her friend) were multiple times over violent offenders - the things you learn about people during court hearings.

I walked out of there with my son. I had to hear multiple questions for the next week or two asking me who I'd been in a cat fight with, but I had my son. The law backed me up this time, fortunately. I think I actually shocked a number of my co-workers when they'd half-heartedly would ask me who I'd been in a cat fight with and I answered promptly, and proudly, my ex-mother-in-law, her friend, and sister. You don't mess with the momma bear. You just don't. I had a few bruises and scratches. Not a single one of them walked away without stitches or a cast.


Again...back to Christmas.

It sucked that year. But the new year started off with a bang.

The next year didn't suck in the same sense, but I did end up having to move back to Oklahoma, from Texas, so that I could establish residency there, while living with my mother, so that I could completely pay for my divorce and avoid another such situation. Brian and I also quit talking at this point in time. My ex was back out of the halfway house for the time being, and living back in Oklahoma, so the divorce proceedings weren't going to cost me my year's wages. I actually lucked out in a way this time around. My ex ended up purposely neglecting to show up for any of the court hearings. I walked away with everything I wanted, including him only being allowed two hours a month of supervised visits. Visits he's not taken advantage of since, neither has his mother.

By the end of summer in 2006 I was back in Texas and Brian and I had started talking again, he was going to be moving back in with us in December, after I got set up in my own apartment.

December 13th that year was the Christmas Party. Brian made his way down to Austin, from Dallas, on the 14th.

Mikeal asked Santa for only two things.

1- That his mommy and 'uncle' Brian would get married so that he could have a good daddy.
and
2- That Santa would bring him a baby brother or sister.

Now remember, he was only 4.

After I got home with Mikeal that evening and he divulged to me what he'd asked Santa for I had to do a bit of 'damage' control. See, Brian is sterile for one. He'd been told by a few doctors that unless there was some sort of medically divine intervention there was no way he was going to be able to have children of his own. Then on the other point - Brian and I still had several things to work through before we actually committed to getting married, and at that point it seemed to be quite the slim chance. The bit about us living together was more of a mutual need fulfillment - he needed a safe place to stay and I needed child care that was available at all hours, for the price of free room and board and food. The 'benefits' part was only available during the times that we were actually 'dating' each other. Otherwise we slept separately...which was most of the time.

That year Mikeal got a few small cheap kiddie games and a remote control car. Our tree was one I was able to 'salvage' from the Big Lots clearance, already pre-decorated, fiber optic, 3ft tall, with a cracked base. Mikeal LOVED it. I was so happy. It was an AWESOME Christmas.

In March my father passed away of a heart attack. He was 44 years old.

Brian made the drive with Mikeal and I up to Oklahoma for the 'memorial'. It was just a quaint service of sorts. My siblings were there, my mom, stepdad, and some family friends. We had the dinner at my mom's house, and spent the afternoon and evening together - playing horseshoes, grilling, and enjoying one another's company. My dad would have been proud. It was exactly what I knew he would have wanted.

Brian proposed to me that evening. The surprise of that came at me like a pitch from left field. We'd already decided a few months before that we were best off 'just friends'...a stipulation I agreed to, even if it did utterly break my heart.

We spent that night at my grandmother's house, on her pull-out couch bed. We wouldn't find out for a few more weeks, but Mikaila was also conceived that night.

Mid-April my co-workers started harassing me about being pregnant. I took the pregnancy test, not because I thought there was a chance that I was pregnant, but to prove to them in pink and white that I was NOT pregnant, just sick and exhausted from pulling double shifts for the last few weeks.

Much to my utter disbelief, I was pregnant.

My due date 'week': December 22-26th.

Against the odds Mikeal's Christmas wishes came true. Brian and I married on Halloween, in front of the judge that had finalized my divorce the year before.


Mikaila was born on December 13th, the first Day of Christmas. She weighed in at a healthy 8lbs 4.6 ounces and was 19 inches long. She was so incredibly tiny compared to Mikeal, who at birth, was 9lbs, 5oz, and 22 inches long.


Every year since Mikeal has gotten exactly what he has wished for for Christmas.


In 2007 he asked for a bike and guitar. We were able to get both for him.


In 2008 he asked to see his Uncle Duke (who'd been away at boot camp) he got his wish, just in time.

In 2009 he asked for snow. It started snowing Christmas Eve, right after he went to bed. By the time he woke up Christmas morning there was 15 inches on the ground. A record breaking white Christmas. White Christmases are a RARITY in Oklahoma, much less in significant quantities.

This year he's really only asked for a (real) Transformer and a Wii. He's already received both of these gifts as 'early' Christmas presents....even if the real Transformer was just a $50 toy that actually transforms from robot to car, complete with sound effects, and myself or Brian have to do the actual full transforming part for him because of the 9000 movable pieces you have to get positioned 'just so'.

He also asked a few months ago for us to not have to worry about being broke...that mostly came true as well. I sold my van the weekend after Thanksgiving, thereby ensuring that we'd have an (expensive) Christmas and that bills and such weren't quite as tight as we had expected them to be for this month. Other things have transpired this month as well that have helped make it a VERY nice month in the finance department of our pocketbook.

So, where I am well past the age of believing in the fairy tale about Santa and his reindeer I am no where near the age past believing in dreams coming true. Even 'far-fetched' dreams have a way of coming true. I have to remember to remember this. Things may not work out exactly as I think they should, when I think they should, but they do have a way of always working out. I just have to believe enough to ask for it then take the necessary steps to help them come true.

Its either that or I have one hell of a 'good luck' charm of a little boy.

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Eight Years Ago...pt 4

~*~*~*~Part One~*~*~*~Part Two~*~*~*~Part Three~*~*~*~

Tuesday morning the doc decided that I wasn't dilating, my contractions went away when they stopped the pitocin, etc so he sent me home. I felt devastated and defeated. I was now 4 days overdue, had spent 48 hours in the hospital, and no baby to show for it. Follow-up appointment scheduled for Thursday, if I didn't go into labor on my own. The doc was sure the drugs of the previous two days would help get things started.

I no sooner was dropped off at the door of our apartment complex and the dead-beat left out to go to work. He came home "early" that night. Early meaning he didn't go to the bar after he got done with work....instead he made the silly attempt to hide the alcohol he had brought home. He had a pint of tequila and it was obvious that the two or three shots he had already drank out of the bottle were not the only drinks he had that night - he'd likely drank at least a 6pk while driving home, throwing the bottles at random signs along the road. I attempted to go to bed early - meaning around midnight. I picked up around the apartment, got dressed for bed, went pee for the 900th time that hour, crawled into bed.

About an hour later I decided that I needed some Tylenol for my pounding headache, so walked into the kitchen where I kept it.

The dead-beat followed me in there. He screamed, yelled, and cussed at me about my utter incompetency at being a woman. There were water spots on the faucets, therefore I hadn't actually cleaned the apartment. There were lines in the carpet going every which way, indicating that I did a rushed sloppy job of vacuuming. And the real kicker, he'd wasted a lot of time having to go up to the hospital for me and I didn't even have the baby.

He attacked me with a knife before I was able to get out of the corner he had backed me into. It wasn't the first time he had threatened me, hit me, or come at me, but it was the first time blood was drawn.

I managed to fight my way out of the apartment. Not too terribly easy of a task being overdue, but the deadbeat's inebriated state made it easier. I have a scar now on my upper left shoulder from the ordeal. Back when it was more pronounced I used to tell people that it was a scar from either surgery, a fall, who knows what I told people. That's the glorious thing about a lie...give it enough time and you'll forget what the lie was you told.

I made my way down to the pay phone in the lobby. I called the cops...again. Once again they talked me out of pressing charges..."because of my condition"...once again they denied making the dead-beat give me the keys to one of the two vehicles and $100 for gas - yea, ironic that 8 years ago $100 for gas would get you halfway across the country in a gas guzzler. Once again I was told by the officers that it wasn't advisable under my condition to be driving 600 miles to my mother's place. And yet, once again the officers told me to just not bother him while he was drinking, to let him sleep it off, and everything would be alright in the morning.

So once again I stood there absolutely, utterly defeated. Blood oozing out of my shoulder, five days overdue, and my "prince charming" being nothing more than an abusive prick who can smooth talk anyone, even those who had sworn to protect and serve.

I went in to pee...once again...this time though I caught sight of the small bottle of tequila that was nearly empty...it was tucked up behind the bathroom trashcan. I dumped out the tequila and refilled the bottle with urine. The next day while I was cleaning the bathroom I noticed it still behind the trashcan, but empty this time, the dumbass oblivious to what I had done, drank my urine. I kept up this new "habit" for the next few months...I don't think he ever noticed...I at least never heard about it and I know had he noticed I would of known...

Somethings I found out over the next 6-8 months: Toilet water mixed with some rubbing alcohol worked for vodka. Tea with some rubbing alcohol worked for whiskey. These were just some of my personal secret 'victories' during our last year living together.

The next few days were uneventful. More harassment from the dead-beat, Thursday's doctor's appt again showed no signs of progress. My doctor scheduled me for another induction for the following Sunday, the 18th, unless I went into labor on my own before then. Which I did not. I was 8 days overdue when I went back to the hospital....

~*~*~*~*~There's still more to come~*~*~*~*~

Hey...at least you're just waiting for the rest of the story...I was the one pregnant waiting on the baby. ♥

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Eight Years Ago...pt 3

~*~*~*~*~ Part One ~*~*~*~*~ Part Two ~*~*~*~*~

Monday....Noon came and went, I was still on the pitocin, having contractions, but the contractions were manageable with some drugs...the dead-beat had passed out around 8am...he left for work around 3pm. I didn't see him again until about 2am. I still wasn't allowed food or drink. I was utterly miserable.

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Eight Years Ago...pt 2

~*~*~*~*~This is part two of an ongoing series. Part one can be found here. ~*~*~*~*~

....today I waddled into the hospital for my first attempt at an induction. They put this nasty jelly type stuff up in me to help soften my cervix. -Don't ask me the name...I honestly don't remember.- This required me to lay there, hooked up to a few different machines, flat on my back. I was not allowed to eat anything. I was not allowed to drink anything. The best I could hope for was ice chips and I'm not terribly fond of ice. So I laid there, bored out of my mind, blood pressure machine going off every 20 minutes, other monitors beeping and carrying on. It was a Sunday night that I had checked into at 6pm.

My family was 12 hours away. I had a few friends in the area that I had met through the meetings of the religious organization I identify with, but they sleep at night and it wasn't quite like we were super close. The dead-beat had a great way of running people off by going on about how terribly immoral I apparently was. Where was the dead-beat you ask? I'd sent him out to sneak me in some food at 8pm that night...I didn't see him again until about 5am. At that time he was terribly drunk, brought me a COLD grilled cheese sandwich that looked disgusting, and proceeded to harass the nurses who came in and put me on the pitocin. He then cussed me out again because I was not yet dilated, no progress whatsoever was being made in regards to birthing Mikeal, and apparently while he was gone I was getting busy with my attractive doctor. I didn't find him all that terribly attractive but the dead-beat considered him to be, so of course I thought the same way as he.

~*~*~*~*~Stay tuned for the continuation....~*~*~*~*~

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Eight Years Ago...pt 1

...on this day was my due date. I went in for my regular check-up. I was measuring two weeks ahead by this time, so had another ultrasound. My ultrasound showed him to be weighing about 7lbs 8oz. My doctor was going to give me another three days to go into labor on my own before he induced me. None of us expected that it would take another 2 inductions - for a total of 3 - over the course of the next 18 days before I would get to hold my little big man with the help of a cesarean.

Edited to add the ugly side...because I promised myself I would quit hiding all the details....

The dead-beat that I was married to at the time started in on his criticism and degrading of me for this. Told me that real women go into labor on their own, that I was being lazy and the like. He went out that afternoon to go to work, did not get home until almost 5am, drunker than snot. During that evening I spent a lot of time walking the staircases and halls- we lived on the 3rd floor of an apartment building, that was designed like a nice hotel- so there were plenty of stairs and halls. I missed one of his phone calls during my walk, so when he finally got home, three hours after last call, I was apparently the one screwing around on him.

I ended up thankful that night that he was extremely drunk when he walked in. He passed out while in the middle of his outburst, crashed through a wall, and slept there all night... The next morning I moved the large solid oak entertainment center over to cover the hole in the wall, as well as the rest of the furniture in the living room to make it less obvious. I was 12 hours from friends and family that had already turned their back on me...believing me to be as immoral as the dead-beat had made me out to be.

Stay tuned over the next few weeks for the rest of the story....

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