Though I am going through a major life change, from independent woman to pregnant mommy, I do want to make something clear: this is still the blog of a single woman. I may not be doing much dating lately, or for the next while, as there is a lot of healing that must happen from the ordeal I have been through, it doesn't make me less feminine or any less single.
There are a few opinions, ill conceived helpful hands, and completely thoughtless questions that I have come across during this pregnancy that have really bothered me. I do want to make mention of these, on the off chance somebody comes across this, and it prevents them from hurting or offending someone that is already dealing with their own demons during what is supposed to be the most hopeful point of her life.
Don't get me wrong in the least bit. This pregnancy and this wonderful baby is the biggest blessing that has ever been bestowed on me, but big blessings come with a lot of responsibilities and fear, especially as a single mom. I am so scared that I won't be doing my baby's needs justice on my own. That being so independent is fine when I was only responsible for myself, but that this baby deserves two selfless, loving parents. Here's the thing, though, the other "parent" isn't loving, nor is he selfless. He has become the definition of the most selfish man I have ever met. It's a lot to digest, that this is the lot I have chosen for me and my son. That this horrible excuse for a man that I chose to date on a whim has now become the biggest detriment to the life of my child. I look at prenatal websites, about what to expect, what to pack for the hospital, what my body will be going through, etc., and all of them make mention of what your mate should do. Every single one. I have no one to drive me to the hospital. No father will anxiously be there, camera in hand, to take pictures or cut the cord. I have no one that will automatically be staying in the hospital with me after I deliver. Who will take home my flowers and cards. Even with the support of my massive family, in all the intimate ways that parents should be at the birth of their child, I am so alone.
If you have a single friend that is also pregnant, please never tell her while she is having a hard time dealing with the realities of her situation that this "is what she wanted." It's horrible and condescending. It throws blame at someone that is having a difficult time as it is. Not saying that every pregnant single mom is an image of one of Picasso's Weeping Woman paintings. Some of us are more than okay about going it alone. But some of us were in love, and were made promises, and were left behind, humiliated for believing that someone loved them. Some of us have huge gaping holes in our hearts, while we try to soldier on for these children we are carrying. Reminding your friend about something stupid she said over a decade ago, about the likelihood that she would be a single mom rather than married, while she is in agony, realizing the full extent of what going through it all on her own actually means, let alone that she has a tortured heart, is not helpful. It's hurtful. So hurtful.
Don't blame your midlife crisis on your friend's pregnancy. Especially your single friend's pregnancy. She is going through enough as it is. She doesn't need to be blamed for the fact that your career isn't where you thought it would be at this point in your life, or that you don't have a girlfriend/boyfriend in your life that you see as long term potential, or that now the logistics of your friendship will change, or that you think she is making a mistake with her goals because she has chosen to keep her baby instead. These are your problems, not hers. I had several of my utmost closest friends get upset or irritated with me for various reasons because of my pregnancy. None of them could sincerely just be happy and supportive of me. I found myself having to call each of my closest friends, and specifically listen to their issues about my pregnancy so that I could bridge the strange gap that all of a sudden happened with my announcement. All this while I was crying myself to sleep every night because of the arguments I was having with the father, having to change my job, and the prospect of having to move out of my home for the last 15 years, solely to save money. It got to such a horrible point that some of them started blaming their major problems on my pregnancy. That's not something easily forgotten - someone that is supposed to love you blaming their issues on your unborn child. It's ridiculous.
Don't offer to help your single pregnant friend, and then make everything worse. This goes hand in hand with the last one. If you have issues with your friend's pregnancy and your position in life, don't offer to help unless you can distance your own issues from the task at hand. There are a lot of ways to help a pregnant friend, generally by helping with a bit of housework that they feel the urge to do, but really should get some sleep, or by rubbing their back or feet when swollen, or by helping to cook some meals for the week. What you should not do is go to their house, get wasted, and spend the whole of a night in a drunken haze, screaming in their living room about how no one cares about you. Especially when that friend hasn't been able to have their much needed sleep in weeks because their sleep cycle is whacked out from hormones. You shouldn't try and help them get up from a seated position, while you are wasted, by wrapping your arms under their armpits and trying to carry them out of the seat, especially if you weigh a buck ten and your friend has put on 40 pounds during her pregnancy. Chances are she is more than capable of getting up by herself, especially if she tells you she is able to stand on her own. All that you are doing is making her have to carry your ass, too, when she has to struggle a little in the first place. Don't decide to paint out your anguish while wasted in her place, and then get paint and dirty paintbrush water all over everything except the canvas. Remember, if you are going somewhere to help, make sure you are the one helping, not the one that needs to be helped.
Don't feed single pregnant women fairytales. We're pregnant and alone. The fairytales are over. Don't tell us that our babies will have good fathers, and that one will just miraculously show up that will not only love her, but will unconditionally love her child, too. We've been to the circus already. We've seen the men behind the curtain in Oz. We don't believe in magic or wizards anymore. Telling a woman that has been seeking a good man her entire life that now she will find one that will be perfect isn't helpful. It makes me want to hit you. I'm not saying the situation is hopeless. It's just hearing that is as helpful as having married folk tell singletons that when they stop looking for a relationship Mr. Right will just suddenly appear. He doesn't. Stop with the fairy tales, and just acknowledge that you can never predict what will happen for someone, and that maybe, just maybe, it might be the biggest blessing in the life of my child, as well as myself, that we are doing this together, without the burden of a man arguing with every choice I make. This child will have a kick ass mom that loves him more than anything in the world. There are a lot of kids with two parents that don't have that assurance. We don't need a man to complete our little family. If one comes along, great, but if it doesn't happen, it doesn't make our family any less than anyone else's.
Do not EVER ask someone that is pregnant what race her child will be. It is completely inappropriate, and extremely racist in actuality. It is none of your business. It should not matter if a child is of a "pure" background or a "mixed" one. A girl I went to high school with, a minor acquaintance, recently asked me over facebook about the father. Obviously I am not discussing the father publically. My situation, outside of being pregnant and a single parent, is really no one's concern. I simply told her he was out of the picture. She then asked me if he was white. Why?!? Why the fuck does it matter? It doesn't. The child will be a lovebug no matter what. She was asking me solely for her own indulgence into my life. She was just being nosy. I answered curtly that the father is black, and stopped responding any futher, even when she then told me that he would be beautiful. Would he be any less beautiful if the father was Asian or German or Italian? No. It doesn't matter. Children and people are not colors. Stop being concerned with it. It has nothing to do with anything important, like the child's health. I would have been more open if she asked me if the father had any health issues that may have to do with the child. I would have told her yes, major egotism and extreme stupidity.
And lastly, NEVER tell a woman that you know is pregnant that she doesn't look pregnant, just fat (big, swollen, chunky, etc.). It is NOT a kindness. It is deprecating and rude. Tell her she glows. Tell her belly is beautiful. Tell her that her acne or dryness or hairiness or big boobs are a gorgeous trial she is undergoing. Tell her she looks like she is carrying the most beautiful thing in the world. Don't tell her she doesn't look pregnant when she is sitting, or that she just looks bloated or heavy. Or just don't comment on her body at all. You don't walk up to larger girls and say, wow, you just look bloated. Why people feel it is okay to tell pregnant women that they don't look pregnant, just fat bewilders me.
Don't be those people.
The best and easiest thing you can do is show love. Care when she is having a hard time. Listen or be a shoulder when she is scared or hurting. Offer to help, and then actually help, even if it is to just come over and watch a movie so that she isn't alone. In Greek there is a word, parea, which is most often translated to mean "company". It goes beyond that. Parea is when you spend time with people that are like family (or often are family), just to be with them, to enjoy them and what they bring to your world. A big thing to remember with a single, pregnant, soon to be mom is that she is still that same friend that you have loved, even though her life is changing. She still needs you to just be there, as a part of her world, and to feel she is an important part of yours. Just be there.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Sunday, June 8, 2014
I Carried A Watermelon.
The best way that I can describe what sleeping/bedtime is like for me right now, at 23 weeks pregnant:
Go to the store and buy a 30 pound watermelon. Take that 30 pound watermelon and put it right over your lower abs and hips, right on top of your bladder. Tape that sucker down with duct tape.
Find two one-pound oranges. Stick them in your bra. Without padding. Do EVERYTHING you normally do with that watermelon and those oranges on you. Make sure your breasts end up really sore by the end of the day.
Go to sleep. On your side, because if you lay on your back, the watermelon will cut off your circulation. Try and sleep - uncomfortably.
Put a pillow between your legs, because that watermelon over your hips is wider than how your legs comfortably fall. Put a second pillow between your legs, because it wasn't quite helping. Now it's too high.
Try and flip over, because you've given up on your right side for the time being, and now your hip hurts. Flipping over is a two minute ordeal, as your belly, hips, and back are prone in a laying position and struggle under the weight.
Lay on your left side, and try the pillow again. Say fuck it, and take three fucking pillows, and throw them down in front of your legs, and cross your leg over it. Much better. Finally.
Close your eyes for five minutes, until you realize your entire back is aching from carrying around the watermelon all day. Reach for a fourth pillow, and cram it as tightly behind you as you can, without disturbing your legs. Close your eyes again. For a minute.
Realize that your arms are crushing those oranges against your chest as you try to find a comfortable way to let your arms fall. Reach for a fifth pillow, and hug it to your chest to comfortably separate your arms and keep your shoulders level. Close your eyes.
Oh my God. Sleep.
Wake up twenty minutes later because all of a sudden the watermelon is kicking you.
Huh? Wtf? That's not right!?!
Go back to sleep. Wake up 45 minutes later because the watermelon, right over your bladder, is making you have to pee like never before. RIGHT NOW.
Kick away all the pillows! Slide to the side of your bed by some weird ass and hips slithering motion because the watermelon has you pinned down. Sneeze. You're basically peeing now. Throw your legs over the side of the bed, while you use that momentum to help you sit up. Run to the bathroom.
Do your duty.
Change your pajama pants, somehow. Generally by holding on to the corner of the bed while you try and maneuver your legs into them and pull them up without bending over.
Lay back down on your left side. Get the pillows back in place.
Realize you are now wide awake.
Do a crossword puzzle, without moving the bulk of your somewhat comfortable body.
Think about how irritated you are with the dude that sold you the watermelon, that is at home peacefully sleeping right now, with no consideration for what your night has come to.
Concentrate on not moving.
Read an article in a magazine, still without moving.
Close your eyes and will yourself to sleep.
Your hips hurt because now you've been on your left side too long, and the weight of the watermelon has taken it's toll.
FUCK!
Start the two minute process of flipping to your right side. Move all of the pillows into place. Put a sixth pillow somewhat under the watermelon.
Sleep. Yes. Sleep.
The watermelon is kicking you again, but oh well.
Wake up two hours later, when your alarm goes off. Slither off the bed again.
Make cereal. Go to the couch to eat it. Set it on the table.
Pass out on the couch.
Wake up four hours later with the soggy, melted, untouched cereal on the table in front of you, your house a mess, and realize you have 15 minutes to get ready for work, and all that time that you allotted for today to clean and get your life together is gone.
Side note: If you don't have a magazine article nearby, you can always just send your friend some long ass weird email about watermelons and sleep at 4:15 in the morning instead... complete with autocorrect errors and the rantings of a crazy woman getting kicked from the inside.
Go to the store and buy a 30 pound watermelon. Take that 30 pound watermelon and put it right over your lower abs and hips, right on top of your bladder. Tape that sucker down with duct tape.
Find two one-pound oranges. Stick them in your bra. Without padding. Do EVERYTHING you normally do with that watermelon and those oranges on you. Make sure your breasts end up really sore by the end of the day.
Go to sleep. On your side, because if you lay on your back, the watermelon will cut off your circulation. Try and sleep - uncomfortably.
Put a pillow between your legs, because that watermelon over your hips is wider than how your legs comfortably fall. Put a second pillow between your legs, because it wasn't quite helping. Now it's too high.
Try and flip over, because you've given up on your right side for the time being, and now your hip hurts. Flipping over is a two minute ordeal, as your belly, hips, and back are prone in a laying position and struggle under the weight.
Lay on your left side, and try the pillow again. Say fuck it, and take three fucking pillows, and throw them down in front of your legs, and cross your leg over it. Much better. Finally.
Close your eyes for five minutes, until you realize your entire back is aching from carrying around the watermelon all day. Reach for a fourth pillow, and cram it as tightly behind you as you can, without disturbing your legs. Close your eyes again. For a minute.
Realize that your arms are crushing those oranges against your chest as you try to find a comfortable way to let your arms fall. Reach for a fifth pillow, and hug it to your chest to comfortably separate your arms and keep your shoulders level. Close your eyes.
Oh my God. Sleep.
Wake up twenty minutes later because all of a sudden the watermelon is kicking you.
Huh? Wtf? That's not right!?!
Go back to sleep. Wake up 45 minutes later because the watermelon, right over your bladder, is making you have to pee like never before. RIGHT NOW.
Kick away all the pillows! Slide to the side of your bed by some weird ass and hips slithering motion because the watermelon has you pinned down. Sneeze. You're basically peeing now. Throw your legs over the side of the bed, while you use that momentum to help you sit up. Run to the bathroom.
Do your duty.
Change your pajama pants, somehow. Generally by holding on to the corner of the bed while you try and maneuver your legs into them and pull them up without bending over.
Lay back down on your left side. Get the pillows back in place.
Realize you are now wide awake.
Do a crossword puzzle, without moving the bulk of your somewhat comfortable body.
Think about how irritated you are with the dude that sold you the watermelon, that is at home peacefully sleeping right now, with no consideration for what your night has come to.
Concentrate on not moving.
Read an article in a magazine, still without moving.
Close your eyes and will yourself to sleep.
Your hips hurt because now you've been on your left side too long, and the weight of the watermelon has taken it's toll.
FUCK!
Start the two minute process of flipping to your right side. Move all of the pillows into place. Put a sixth pillow somewhat under the watermelon.
Sleep. Yes. Sleep.
The watermelon is kicking you again, but oh well.
Wake up two hours later, when your alarm goes off. Slither off the bed again.
Make cereal. Go to the couch to eat it. Set it on the table.
Pass out on the couch.
Wake up four hours later with the soggy, melted, untouched cereal on the table in front of you, your house a mess, and realize you have 15 minutes to get ready for work, and all that time that you allotted for today to clean and get your life together is gone.
Side note: If you don't have a magazine article nearby, you can always just send your friend some long ass weird email about watermelons and sleep at 4:15 in the morning instead... complete with autocorrect errors and the rantings of a crazy woman getting kicked from the inside.
Friday, June 6, 2014
When Dreams Come True, And The Nightmares That Go With Them.
When I started this blog, I promised myself that I would write once a week. The last one I wrote was in January. It's June now. I haven't been able to face this blog for some time, because then I have to face myself, and I'm not quite sure how to do that right now.
I got into a relationship in January. A fast and furious one. I don't think I know how to do any other kind. I relented, and, against my better judgment, started dating a coworker that I was attracted to. I'll just refer to him as Dick. I fell really hard. We both did. Within a couple of weeks, we were in a monogamous relationship, yet we had to keep it secret, as we were not allowed to date within the company, especially as I was in the midst of a promotion.
Then I got pregnant.
After all of these years of crying myself to sleep, desperately wanting a child of my own, it happened. And it happened the very first time we messed around. We had only been in a relationship for three weeks when we found out. It threw a major wrench into everything for both of us. While I was elated to be having a baby, I knew that everything would change, for me, for him, and definitely for us. There was no way we could continue working together, in a secret relationship, while I was growing big with his baby.
Initially we dealt with things as best we could. Slowly things became a bit tense. He blamed a lot on me, as I was the one with the desire to have a baby, even though he knew exactly what he was doing when it happened. Then things went to hell. Fucking terrifying shit nightmare hell.
His ex girlfriend had been trying to get in touch with him for months, since the last time they had dealt with each other - right before he met me. Things had been so bad with her that he had cut all communication. About three weeks after we found out about my pregnancy, she finally got hold of him. It turns out that she is pregnant as well, and timing puts it when they last dealt with each other, three to four months further along than me.
They have known each other a lot longer than he and I, and they are also of the same religion. She had met his family when they were in a relationship, which he and I had only known each other a short time, are of conflicting religions, and his family is not interested in meeting me. Upon finding out about Dick's precarious situation, his parents decided to get involved. They immediately started pushing for him to marry the ex, so that they could have a grandbaby of the same faith. They have given no thought to me, or to this grandchild of theirs. They have threatened many things in order to get Dick to do what they deem is correct, including threatening to disown him, which would cause him to lose any and all inheritance that he would've received.
This was hard enough, but I guess that fate decided that I needed more trials. I found out that Dick was actually considering marrying the ex. It turns out that his ex had always been suicidal (a major factor in their original break up) and that she was still threatening suicide now, which would not only end her life, but the baby's as well. I'm sorry, and I do feel for those that are dealing with depression, but seriously?!? Who does that?!? If he marries her because of that, all she would ever have to do is throw a tantrum threatening to kill herself anytime she wants something. It's just sick and deranged. She had been trying to get him back for a long time. I truly believe that she planned to get pregnant from the get go (she booked the trip out here specifically to have sex with him, which is when it happened), as a ploy to get him back. She made a trip out to see his parents without him, while she was seven months pregnant, to get them to speak on her behalf. I don't demonize ex girlfriends as a rule, because I know there are two sides to every story, but in this situation, where this woman is using underhanded, slimy ways to screw over myself and my child, I don't feel that I am demonizing a woman. I feel that I am describing a snake.
Obviously, the fact that my boyfriend was considering marrying another woman while I was pregnant with his child didn't bode well for our relationship. Dick and I broke up. We still had to work with each other almost every day, though, and that was a living hell. I couldn't talk to anyone about it, and I would cry more at work than I could've thought imaginable. I was dealing with all of the ailments of pregnancy by myself, while the father looked on, completely unbothered, while he "dealt" with his own issues - by doing nothing. He hasn't married her, he hasn't tried to work anything out with me, he has only been doing what will suffice for his parents to not take away his inheritance. I guess not dealing with the Greek girl is enough.
He would have moments where I could see how confused he was, and that deep down he wanted to deal with me, even though things were different now. I had become a raving bitch. Hormones and righteousness overtook me. My temper is something else when someone I love and care about is being messed with, and this isn't just someone I love we are talking about - this is my child. It wasn't a temper he was dealing with. It was rage. It still is. We would try and talk at times, and I would be patient and understanding, because deep down, I do feel for the guy. Family is important to both of us, and his parents hold a lot of pull. I get it. But seriously, dude, grow some balls. I had to sit down and talk with my family about my predicament, and I was prepared for them to disown me, especially if I stayed with him, and I didn't shy away from that potential outcome. This is my child that deserves a good father. If I felt that he would be one, there's nothing I wouldn't give for my child to benefit from it. Fortunately, my family quickly came around, and have been incredibly supportive of the baby. The one thing that they have asked is that I leave Dick alone, unless he comes for me, with a ring. For this, I know that my family is incredibly wise. They aren't holding anything against him, they just don't want me stooping to keep someone that may not be worth keeping. I need a man and a father for my child, not some guy that shirks responsibility and only thinks of himself.
In order to get some separation, and hopefully into a less stressful environment, I ended up quitting my job and started working for my cousin. He and I have talked a few times since I left, and the conversations seemed to go well, but it's hopeless. Truly. Deep down I know it, and this is why I haven't been able to write in this blog. At my core, I want him to love me. I want him to want to be with us - me, and our son. I want him to be the man that he promised to be when we first made love, and this little boy was conceived. Biologically, I can't stop this desire to be with him. I have our baby in me, and all I want is him. I want him to hold me at night, and to have his hand protectively on my big belly, feeling this baby kick.
I've slept alone every night for the last few months. I've dealt with this nightmare by myself. He should be flying out to his ex any day now, to be there for the birth of his first child, also a boy. He will experience it all just a few months before my baby is born. His parents will most likely go and celebrate the birth of their grandchild. I will be sitting here, with no communication from him, as he doesn't view my heart and feelings as being involved with any of this. He hasn't attended a single doctor's appointment. I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time by myself, with tears in my eyes. I found out my son's gender by myself. He has not been a daddy or a father. Dick has been a donor.
The only recompense I have in any of this is the name of my child. My son will be named after my father, and will carry my last name. Dick does not get to waltz in after the baby is born, and try and claim the baby's name. We've had a few conversations about his frustrations with this, but frankly, I don't care. My son will not be living with a name for the rest of his life because of a father that is not around. He will know exactly who he is named after, and he will know why. He will know about how loving, strong, and amazing my father is. He will know what a true male role model is.
When I told my sister that I am having a boy, she said "I thought so, it makes sense. You've been looking for a man to love you unconditionally your entire life. Now you will finally have one."
I don't think I've cried so hard in my life.
I got into a relationship in January. A fast and furious one. I don't think I know how to do any other kind. I relented, and, against my better judgment, started dating a coworker that I was attracted to. I'll just refer to him as Dick. I fell really hard. We both did. Within a couple of weeks, we were in a monogamous relationship, yet we had to keep it secret, as we were not allowed to date within the company, especially as I was in the midst of a promotion.
Then I got pregnant.
After all of these years of crying myself to sleep, desperately wanting a child of my own, it happened. And it happened the very first time we messed around. We had only been in a relationship for three weeks when we found out. It threw a major wrench into everything for both of us. While I was elated to be having a baby, I knew that everything would change, for me, for him, and definitely for us. There was no way we could continue working together, in a secret relationship, while I was growing big with his baby.
Initially we dealt with things as best we could. Slowly things became a bit tense. He blamed a lot on me, as I was the one with the desire to have a baby, even though he knew exactly what he was doing when it happened. Then things went to hell. Fucking terrifying shit nightmare hell.
His ex girlfriend had been trying to get in touch with him for months, since the last time they had dealt with each other - right before he met me. Things had been so bad with her that he had cut all communication. About three weeks after we found out about my pregnancy, she finally got hold of him. It turns out that she is pregnant as well, and timing puts it when they last dealt with each other, three to four months further along than me.
They have known each other a lot longer than he and I, and they are also of the same religion. She had met his family when they were in a relationship, which he and I had only known each other a short time, are of conflicting religions, and his family is not interested in meeting me. Upon finding out about Dick's precarious situation, his parents decided to get involved. They immediately started pushing for him to marry the ex, so that they could have a grandbaby of the same faith. They have given no thought to me, or to this grandchild of theirs. They have threatened many things in order to get Dick to do what they deem is correct, including threatening to disown him, which would cause him to lose any and all inheritance that he would've received.
This was hard enough, but I guess that fate decided that I needed more trials. I found out that Dick was actually considering marrying the ex. It turns out that his ex had always been suicidal (a major factor in their original break up) and that she was still threatening suicide now, which would not only end her life, but the baby's as well. I'm sorry, and I do feel for those that are dealing with depression, but seriously?!? Who does that?!? If he marries her because of that, all she would ever have to do is throw a tantrum threatening to kill herself anytime she wants something. It's just sick and deranged. She had been trying to get him back for a long time. I truly believe that she planned to get pregnant from the get go (she booked the trip out here specifically to have sex with him, which is when it happened), as a ploy to get him back. She made a trip out to see his parents without him, while she was seven months pregnant, to get them to speak on her behalf. I don't demonize ex girlfriends as a rule, because I know there are two sides to every story, but in this situation, where this woman is using underhanded, slimy ways to screw over myself and my child, I don't feel that I am demonizing a woman. I feel that I am describing a snake.
Obviously, the fact that my boyfriend was considering marrying another woman while I was pregnant with his child didn't bode well for our relationship. Dick and I broke up. We still had to work with each other almost every day, though, and that was a living hell. I couldn't talk to anyone about it, and I would cry more at work than I could've thought imaginable. I was dealing with all of the ailments of pregnancy by myself, while the father looked on, completely unbothered, while he "dealt" with his own issues - by doing nothing. He hasn't married her, he hasn't tried to work anything out with me, he has only been doing what will suffice for his parents to not take away his inheritance. I guess not dealing with the Greek girl is enough.
He would have moments where I could see how confused he was, and that deep down he wanted to deal with me, even though things were different now. I had become a raving bitch. Hormones and righteousness overtook me. My temper is something else when someone I love and care about is being messed with, and this isn't just someone I love we are talking about - this is my child. It wasn't a temper he was dealing with. It was rage. It still is. We would try and talk at times, and I would be patient and understanding, because deep down, I do feel for the guy. Family is important to both of us, and his parents hold a lot of pull. I get it. But seriously, dude, grow some balls. I had to sit down and talk with my family about my predicament, and I was prepared for them to disown me, especially if I stayed with him, and I didn't shy away from that potential outcome. This is my child that deserves a good father. If I felt that he would be one, there's nothing I wouldn't give for my child to benefit from it. Fortunately, my family quickly came around, and have been incredibly supportive of the baby. The one thing that they have asked is that I leave Dick alone, unless he comes for me, with a ring. For this, I know that my family is incredibly wise. They aren't holding anything against him, they just don't want me stooping to keep someone that may not be worth keeping. I need a man and a father for my child, not some guy that shirks responsibility and only thinks of himself.
In order to get some separation, and hopefully into a less stressful environment, I ended up quitting my job and started working for my cousin. He and I have talked a few times since I left, and the conversations seemed to go well, but it's hopeless. Truly. Deep down I know it, and this is why I haven't been able to write in this blog. At my core, I want him to love me. I want him to want to be with us - me, and our son. I want him to be the man that he promised to be when we first made love, and this little boy was conceived. Biologically, I can't stop this desire to be with him. I have our baby in me, and all I want is him. I want him to hold me at night, and to have his hand protectively on my big belly, feeling this baby kick.
I've slept alone every night for the last few months. I've dealt with this nightmare by myself. He should be flying out to his ex any day now, to be there for the birth of his first child, also a boy. He will experience it all just a few months before my baby is born. His parents will most likely go and celebrate the birth of their grandchild. I will be sitting here, with no communication from him, as he doesn't view my heart and feelings as being involved with any of this. He hasn't attended a single doctor's appointment. I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time by myself, with tears in my eyes. I found out my son's gender by myself. He has not been a daddy or a father. Dick has been a donor.
The only recompense I have in any of this is the name of my child. My son will be named after my father, and will carry my last name. Dick does not get to waltz in after the baby is born, and try and claim the baby's name. We've had a few conversations about his frustrations with this, but frankly, I don't care. My son will not be living with a name for the rest of his life because of a father that is not around. He will know exactly who he is named after, and he will know why. He will know about how loving, strong, and amazing my father is. He will know what a true male role model is.
When I told my sister that I am having a boy, she said "I thought so, it makes sense. You've been looking for a man to love you unconditionally your entire life. Now you will finally have one."
I don't think I've cried so hard in my life.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
If These Walls Could Talk
My bedroom has been the setting for a lot of the events in my life. I've been laid up in it with pneumonia, shingles, flus, sprained ankles, and mono. I've spent hours and hours decorating it, painting it, cleaning it, and doing it all over again. It's been my shelter, my sanctuary, and, of course, my boudoir. Over the years, it's taken on a life of it's own.
I guess, if you wanted to analyze it, you could say my innermost vulnerabilities show up in my bedroom. The "show" bedding that I have is light green satin and lace, matching the hue of my eyes. The single lamp I have in there is draped in a scarf of the same color. These are probably the sole decorations in my room that are not influenced by anything else but myself.
I had a painting over my bed that Perse had given me. It was one she had done after a trip to New York, where she had been the victim of a sexual assault. The painting was amazing, but it got to a point where I had to give it to Stacey. The painting, while beautiful, was filled with images of penis shaped heads emerging from the ground, with churches in the background, and a man fellating a woman. After awhile, it started to effect my dreams. So I changed it to a painting that reminds me of someone that used to be friends with (referenced in my Edie And Andy entry), and who had broken my heart completely, because I am sadistic. His sister had painted the piece in question of a cross section of a person's head/brain, with a map of Portland in the brain. He has a brain tumor that he has been fighting for over a decade. I purchased the piece because it hit me on several emotional levels, it being his sister, and a brain, and the map of Portland, a place that means a lot to me. And now, when we can no longer be in the same room together, I oddly enough sleep under that painting every night. I need a painting over my bed because I don't have a headboard. I gave up on having headboards. Between them taking up wall space that can be used by art, and the fact that I have a tendency to break them, it seems to be a better fit to go without. And I don't break them how you think I do. I break them by changing the linens on my bed. Over time the screws and such that hold them to the base board just fall to pieces. So, no, I don't break my head board by too much play. That's how I have broken my bed itself. I wish I was exaggerating.
There are several other paintings and drawings in my room, some done by myself, but many done by my friends. On one wall, I also have several religious icons. Being Greek Orthodox, icons - images of saints and Jesus - are an important part of the faith. Being an artist, it is an aspect of the religion that I understand in my soul, but it did make for weird bedmates, the saints and Perse's penises. Probably another reason I swapped the pieces.
My bedroom used to be painted white. It's not anymore. It's red. Blood red. After a fall out with an ex-boyfriend, I took it out on my bedroom and painted it menstrual red. For some reason, I needed my own version of the Red Tent. A bedroom as passionate and outspoken as I am. To top it of, my bedroom isn't overly large. It's a very cozy small red bedroom, just big enough for my queen sized bed, wardrobe, and nightstand. My house is also very old, and my room is partially under the staircase, leaving a low, sloped ceiling in my room, just about a foot away from my bed. I only mention this because this placement has been the cause of many injuries for gentlemen callers. When they get up in the morning to put their clothing back on, and they stand up to their full height after pulling their pants up, they smack the shit out of their head on the sloped ceiling. The first time it happened, I felt horrible for the guy. After watching different guys bonking the crap out of their heads, it became difficult not to laugh. I have been itching to install a secret video camera there just to catch the moment they beat the shit out of their domes.
That brings me back to all those icons. It never occurs to me at the time, but I'm sure it's got to be weird to the guys to have all these saints looking at them while we do what they would frown upon. Somehow, most guys that I have dated didn't let it effect their performance, and the ones that had performance issues didn't seem to be bothered by them either.
In many ways, my room has become my bachelorette pad. Between the red walls, and the veiled lamp light, it has a lusty feel to it. I have my hiding spot for my prophylactics and fun stuff. I have my candles and incense, which I only light when men come over. I don't care about that frilly stuff when I'm on my own. I have a selection of music that I keep near the player, in case of a more spontaneous encounter. I even have a selection of guy friendly movies, depending on the temperament of the guy, that I fall back on. Movies including 300, Black Dynamite, Fifth Element, Scarface, American Gangster, and Sherlock Holmes among others. A selection put together for their ability to make dudes comfortable, but not draw all of their attention, so they can pay attention to me, as well. If these walls could talk, they would tell of similar conversations with different men over the years ("why do you have a spiked wooden mace hanging from the wall?" - can't tell you how many times I've had that conversation...), about men nearing concussion, and about the good, the bad, and the ugly in sex. I can't be too embarrassed though. I've lived in this house for almost 15 years, and am in my mid thirties. All that experience had to happen somewhere, at least it's where I reign, in my blood red heart of a room.
I guess, if you wanted to analyze it, you could say my innermost vulnerabilities show up in my bedroom. The "show" bedding that I have is light green satin and lace, matching the hue of my eyes. The single lamp I have in there is draped in a scarf of the same color. These are probably the sole decorations in my room that are not influenced by anything else but myself.
I had a painting over my bed that Perse had given me. It was one she had done after a trip to New York, where she had been the victim of a sexual assault. The painting was amazing, but it got to a point where I had to give it to Stacey. The painting, while beautiful, was filled with images of penis shaped heads emerging from the ground, with churches in the background, and a man fellating a woman. After awhile, it started to effect my dreams. So I changed it to a painting that reminds me of someone that used to be friends with (referenced in my Edie And Andy entry), and who had broken my heart completely, because I am sadistic. His sister had painted the piece in question of a cross section of a person's head/brain, with a map of Portland in the brain. He has a brain tumor that he has been fighting for over a decade. I purchased the piece because it hit me on several emotional levels, it being his sister, and a brain, and the map of Portland, a place that means a lot to me. And now, when we can no longer be in the same room together, I oddly enough sleep under that painting every night. I need a painting over my bed because I don't have a headboard. I gave up on having headboards. Between them taking up wall space that can be used by art, and the fact that I have a tendency to break them, it seems to be a better fit to go without. And I don't break them how you think I do. I break them by changing the linens on my bed. Over time the screws and such that hold them to the base board just fall to pieces. So, no, I don't break my head board by too much play. That's how I have broken my bed itself. I wish I was exaggerating.
There are several other paintings and drawings in my room, some done by myself, but many done by my friends. On one wall, I also have several religious icons. Being Greek Orthodox, icons - images of saints and Jesus - are an important part of the faith. Being an artist, it is an aspect of the religion that I understand in my soul, but it did make for weird bedmates, the saints and Perse's penises. Probably another reason I swapped the pieces.
My bedroom used to be painted white. It's not anymore. It's red. Blood red. After a fall out with an ex-boyfriend, I took it out on my bedroom and painted it menstrual red. For some reason, I needed my own version of the Red Tent. A bedroom as passionate and outspoken as I am. To top it of, my bedroom isn't overly large. It's a very cozy small red bedroom, just big enough for my queen sized bed, wardrobe, and nightstand. My house is also very old, and my room is partially under the staircase, leaving a low, sloped ceiling in my room, just about a foot away from my bed. I only mention this because this placement has been the cause of many injuries for gentlemen callers. When they get up in the morning to put their clothing back on, and they stand up to their full height after pulling their pants up, they smack the shit out of their head on the sloped ceiling. The first time it happened, I felt horrible for the guy. After watching different guys bonking the crap out of their heads, it became difficult not to laugh. I have been itching to install a secret video camera there just to catch the moment they beat the shit out of their domes.
That brings me back to all those icons. It never occurs to me at the time, but I'm sure it's got to be weird to the guys to have all these saints looking at them while we do what they would frown upon. Somehow, most guys that I have dated didn't let it effect their performance, and the ones that had performance issues didn't seem to be bothered by them either.
In many ways, my room has become my bachelorette pad. Between the red walls, and the veiled lamp light, it has a lusty feel to it. I have my hiding spot for my prophylactics and fun stuff. I have my candles and incense, which I only light when men come over. I don't care about that frilly stuff when I'm on my own. I have a selection of music that I keep near the player, in case of a more spontaneous encounter. I even have a selection of guy friendly movies, depending on the temperament of the guy, that I fall back on. Movies including 300, Black Dynamite, Fifth Element, Scarface, American Gangster, and Sherlock Holmes among others. A selection put together for their ability to make dudes comfortable, but not draw all of their attention, so they can pay attention to me, as well. If these walls could talk, they would tell of similar conversations with different men over the years ("why do you have a spiked wooden mace hanging from the wall?" - can't tell you how many times I've had that conversation...), about men nearing concussion, and about the good, the bad, and the ugly in sex. I can't be too embarrassed though. I've lived in this house for almost 15 years, and am in my mid thirties. All that experience had to happen somewhere, at least it's where I reign, in my blood red heart of a room.
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