I’m starting Shit I Found Saturdays here on my blog, which will exist only Saturdays, (betcha couldn’t have gleaned that from the name) which is cool except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays. So let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the ‘net (I sorta want to punch myself in the throat for saying “the ‘net”) and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts (lies)!

Shit I Did:

I put this page together for my blogroll, which I’ve been cleaning out. Totes depressing to see so many abandoned blogs. Fill that shit out – my only request is that if you wanna be on my blogroll, just put me on yours.

I pulled out my hair a lot because holy FUCKS does my site look like dogshit right now. This is why I should never hit “Update” on any WordPress blog, ever.

I wrote this. I loved it.

Shit I Read:

Abraham Lincoln Filed For A Facebook Patent in 1845 – I know this is a prank so ancient that dust poured from my fingers when I typed it, but it’s still fucking hilarious. Also: Pranksters, we NEED to do another prank. OBVS.

Violence – So often we forget how after all is said and done, many of us have been the victim of terrible violence in our lives, and we’re left to “recover” on our own.

Graph Paper Press – this is an old wordpress theme site in which, for a not terrible sum, people who have photoblogs and other actual “art shit” to display, can download, customize and use. I get full of the jealous every time I look because I am not a photoblogger, which means I should be banned from the Internet.

Things I Learned In Wisconsin At A Wedding – who doesn’t like lists? And humor?

Fuck You Firefly, Have You Lost Your Light? – totally brave post about feeling empty and broken after a series of shitty relationships.

Lil Bub – the world’s cutest motherfucking cat. I only wish he made videos where he sang and danced.

Shit That Made Me Smile:

Dude, that cat is totally all sticking his tongue out at me. What the shit?

Shit That’s Just Fucking Rad:

A mashed potato vending machine:

We live in the motherfucking FUTURE, y’all.

Also: I now have a new thing to lust after.

People Doing Good Shit:

We all know (because I’ve blabbed about it ad nauseum) that I founded and work on a (nearly) non-profit site called Band Back Together, where we work to break down stigmas of mental illness, trauma, sexual abuse, and darkness by bringing them into light. We are, after all, none of us alone. You are all, as always, welcome to post with us.

Turns out? The Internet is rife with people doing good.

My friend Aaron recently launched Kids Cooperate, a site for kids ages 13-15, 16-18, and 18 and over with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, Asperger Syndrome, High Functioning Autism, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and Shyness. Kids will be grouped together based upon their needs and interests.

Kids Corporate has eHangouts, an rad use of technology that brings teens together in safe, facilitated friendship circles to socialize and support each other. Using Google’s secure video conferencing technology, groups of 9 peers and a facilitator meet for 30 minute sessions to check in, play games, and hangout in a way that builds confidence, develops social skills, and scaffolds the development of real friendship.

I think that’s fucking awesome.

—————–

Shit Other People Found:

– From Pete in AZ

Now it’s your turn. What cool shit have you found? Write it on your own blog and link up or throw it in the comments!

Saturday, July 14

Part I

Part II

Part III

The problem with sleeping in hotels is, for me, the lack of direct sunlight cuing my ass to get the fuck out of bed and start my damn day. Hotels, even like the one we stayed in in NashVegas, which boasted beautiful indoor gardens, which our balcony opened up to, are timeless to me. Sort of like hospitals – it can be 2AM or 2PM and it feels the damn same.

Dawn had, like the morning person she is, sat out on the balcony reading trashy magazines for like 8,272 hours waiting for my lazy ass to slog out of bed. When I did, she handed me a cup of coffee and then watched, befuddled as I went to the teeny coffee maker outside the bathroom and made myself a cup of coffee.

“Um,” she said. “You do know that we already have coffee, right?”

“Yeah,” I grunted. “But I’m double-fisting this motherfucker.”

She laughed before saying, “if we don’t go soon, we’re going to miss our tour.”

FUCK.

The TOUR.

We’d planned exactly two things for the trip, figuring the rest would just be organic (but not like ORGANIC) and we’d do the shit we wanted to do when we wanted to do it. EXCEPT for the two things we’d planned, which had very specific start times. Like the fucking tour.

Rushing downstairs, we got the car from the valet, who had, thoughtfully, left the driver’s side window open so that Dawn was, effectively, sitting on a slushy, squishy seat. Awesome. I offered her my ass, but somehow she didn’t think it would help. Crazy ass.

She plugged in the coordinates to the Country Music Hall of Fame and off we went. Quickly, we learned that, not unlike Chicago, NashTucky had a “construction season” rather than a “summer.” Grimly we followed the chipper-sounding GPS lady (who I felt like throat-punching, truthfully), to one “closed to construction” street after another.

Finally, we made our way into the bottom of the Hilton hotel in downtown NashVegas, where we parked, all but screaming “FUCK IT” as we watched our tour time tick steadily past. Trudging out of the underground lot, I noted one thing. We were right fucking next to the Country Music Hall of Fame. After all the twists and turns we’d done, that alone was a minor miracle.

We raced to the desk, barely stopping to notice the beautiful atrium, and begged the woman behind the counter to take the next tour.

“Well,” she drawled. “We got one startin’ at one with two seats left. Want ’em?”

“YES! Thank you, YES, thank you!” Dawn returned. “It’s her birthday and we don’t want to miss this.” I didn’t bother to correct her – my birthday was the following day, but really, we’d be heading back to Chicago by then, so for all intents and purposes? It was my birthday.

The lady behind the counter fiddled with some tickets and a printer that had probably been created well before I’d been born, as I basked in the sunlight like a cat, listening to the delicate strains of a guitar playing through the lobby of the Country Music Hall of Fame.

I only have this moment, I thought, as I was reminded of my hippie parents: the future is unwritten and the past is unchangeable. I took deep breath after deep breath, letting the light inside me. The woman behind the counter eventually handed Dawn the tickets with the instructions, “Get into that line over there and the tour guide will pick you up at one!” She beamed at us, both falling all over ourselves with thank you’s.

As I turned to walk away, she looked me in the eye and said, her voice dripping with genuine sweetness and light, “Happy Birthday, hon.”

A normal response would be to smile and thank her for the well wishes, which I did. Then, I promptly turned around, standing in one of the most beautiful atriums I’ve ever seen, listening to a guy play a lone guitar version of “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You,” and burst into tears. That happens a lot to me when shit gets real: instead of behaving like a normal person, I cry when people are kind to me. If she’d said, “you’re an ugly fat bitch,” I’d have responded with some fairly rude gestures, reported her to her manager and demand a discount on the already-purchased tickets.

But when people are kind like that? It gets me. Every. Fucking. Time.

I stepped outside to regroup, not entirely comfortable with an entire atrium staring at the crazy crying lady, because you know as well as I, the very moment someone near you begins to weep, you want to know why; comfort them, or (if you’re me) hug them, and then create some story in your mind as to WHY this person, standing in the middle of the lobby of a beautiful building is weeping. If’n I’d seen me, I’d have made up some wild tale about John C. Mayer stalking me, vying for my love, while I slowly turned into Lil Wayne.

What? I didn’t say it was PLAUSIBLE. Or did I?

Alas, I digress.

After I’d stopped sniffling like a whiny bitch, a perky chick with long blonde hair was ushering us into a van. Without checking her ID, I hoped we weren’t going off to have our internal organs sliced out (altho, anyone on The Twitter knows I have beautiful kidneys – organ harvesters should BE so lucky), but, I figured, “what the shit? Live a little, AB” as I hopped aboard.

The perky blonde jabbered on at us while we drove past all the places where the greats in country music gave us our roots.

You’d probably not know it, but I’m sorta a music person. Not in the LEMMIE SEE AS MANY CONCERTS AS POSSIBLE kind of way, but I was raised around music. Each Saturday night, my dad and I would stay up until midnight, listening to the Midnight Special, a show put out by our local radio station. It was there that I cut my teeth on the roots of modern rock-n-roll (if there is such a thing) bluegrass, country, folk, and the ubiquitous anti-war songs. Music may not define me, but it flows through these here *taps arm* veins.

We stepped into RCA Studio B, where so many greats had once recorded, and, in a brilliant twist, Roy Orbison’s, “Only The Lonely” cued up immediately. I’d much prefer Journey, Pantera or Styx to cue up when I enter a room, but you know – can’t have it all ways. I, once again, stood with my back to the group, facing the wall while I composed myself. Just what I’d needed – the world’s most depressing song to come on at THAT moment.

Then we saw this. I nearly got a lady-boner:

After I touched the microphone, I wandered into the actual recording studio where The Greats had once stood.

Then I decided that even though I couldn’t play the piano, what I REALLY needed was a Honky Tonk Piano. I got busted trying to move this particular piano into my purse:

I thought it would do wonders for my mood.

They didn’t seem to see it that way.

July 13, 2012

Wait, they don’t tattoo BABIES, do they?

– My mother.

I’d spent years lusting after a sleeve (read: a tattoo that goes on your upper arm)(I felt it necessary to define it because, well, um, if I told you I’d been lusting after a sleeve, that would make it sound as though I lacked shirts with sleeves, and as a resident of Chicago, where winter is affectionately called, “ass cold,” that would be ridiculous).

ANYWAY. A sleeve. I wanted one. I was also shit-scared about getting one.

If you know anything about my tattooing history, you know that I

a) go big

2) go home.

It’s not like anyone was all, “If you get a sleeve tattoo, you’re a douchebag,” except for my mother, who harkens back to the days in which tattoos were for sailors and pimps, something she PROBABLY should’ve left out of her lectures to both my brother and I – who both (independently) took that knowledge to mean, “you know what? I DO need a lot of tattoos.”

Let this be a lesson to you, parents: be careful what you tell your children. For example, do not say, “Those weird ear plug things are waaayyyy trashy,” and whatever you do, do not say (unless you will be okay with the outcome,) “if you become an interpretive dancer, I WILL disown you.”

My mom’s big thing was that “tattoos were trashy.” What I heard was: “tattoos are awesome. You should get a lot of them.”

Those ‘ens were the first of my tattoos.

Which, if anyone tells you otherwise, DO NOT BELIEVE THEM: feet tattoos hurt like a motherfucker.

But? They have special meanings to me, which I may explain in exhaustive detail at a later date, but let me leave you with this: a month before my wedding, I got the seahorse tattoo to remind me that I would ALWAYS be okay alone – I didn’t need a partner; I wanted one.

Eventually, after approximately 87 years, I “finished*” this tattoo, which you’re probably familiar with:

My phoenix tattoo.

While I’d always lusted after a sleeve tattoo, I just wasn’t brave enough to attempt it. Besides, the only idea I’d had for a sleeve tattoo seemed kinda…silly, and really, a sleeve? On me? I didn’t know if I could pull it off. I was, and I’m being honest here, afraid of the idea. I’d noted that I’d been afraid a lot, over the years, much more than the girl I’d once known – I didn’t like it, but I didn’t quite know how to fix it.

As we drove down to NashTucky, countin’ tires on the side of the road, I let my mind roam – I knew I wouldn’t be getting a present this year, beyond the dildo/highlighter and rad CD tunage (which, let’s face it, is present enough)(If you like John C. Mayer), and I didn’t want that to be the defining moment of my 32nd year on the planet. Besides, no present, BEYOND the John C. Mayer CD would fix my life.

So, I decided to get myself a present.

Something to remind myself of the important lessons I was learning: in my new life, I must be brave; I must learn to take risks and I must be ready to do whatever it takes to get by (note: Craig’s List no longer has “casual encounters” so that’s out.). I must be proud of who I am, stand upright, be strong, and remember that I? Can get through anything.

Dawn had known of my plan – I’d originally planned to get some text written on me like my girl Dana had done, but realized that without doing precisely what she’d done, I wasn’t really going to get anywhere. This meant that Dawn, being the Type-A overachiever, much like myself had already pulled up a list of names and numbers of local tattoo parlors in NashTucky; the ones, of course, with the highest ratings.

When we finally arrived in NashVegas, I began to call the places Dawn had thoughtfully picked out. The first one – the one with the highest ratings – said “come on in!” To which I replied, in my VERY Type-A style, “but do I need an appointment first?” (I loathe doing ANYTHING without an appointment. I’d probably schedule bathroom breaks if I didn’t run my own schedule). Also: the tattoo was the one thing I’d be getting for my birthday and, quite frankly, I wanted it DONE so we could do other things and never mention my birthday again.

“Naw,” the guy said. “Just come on in.”

So we did.

We drove through what was probably the worst part of NashVegas, noting the sheer amount of “Quik Cash Payday Loan” shops peppering the sides of the streets, a sinking feeling of “what the shitnuts am I doing?” gnawing my guts. Then I remembered: I was being brave. Also: stupid. But hey, who’s counting?

Finally we turned down a quiet street.

“PHEW,” I said to Dawn, who looked equally stupefied by the locale. “At least all the houses aren’t…”

“Oh wait. They are.”

Yep. For every house we passed, the following three had boarded-up windows. I wanted to scream, SOUTHSIIIIIDDDDDEEEEEEE out the window but figured that I didn’t even have a tampon to bring to a gun fight, therefore I should shut my whore mouth.

Finally we pulled up to a tiny house, lit softly by a yellowish light, the front porch nearly taken up by two white rocking chairs. The humidity and moths circling about the lone light fixture on the porch gave everything a sort of hazy look, and I wondered if this was what living in Florida during the summers was like. The two rocking chairs were occupied by two fairly scary looking guys – I wondered, briefly, if I’d been friends with them in another life.

I walked in first, Dawn tagging along behind me, both of us nervous as cats in a roomful of rocking chairs, because, well, this was a BIG fucking deal for us both.

Pretending I wasn’t shitting my pants (thank GOD for adult-diapers), I walked up to the guy behind the counter and said, “I need a tattoo – two of them, actually.” He looked at me, carefully assessing me to see if I was, perhaps, going to ask for him to write “I heart Nickelback” on my ass or something.

“Where do y’all want it?” he drawled in a very pleasant accent; the kind I’d have been happy to listen to as I went to sleep.

“Right…HERE,” I gestured to my upper arm.

“Whatcha want there?” he asked.

“A peacock.” I replied, suddenly damn certain I was doing the right thing.

It was like the entire room perked up at once, suddenly listening, as though I’d said something ACTUALLY interesting (which, let’s be honest with ourselves – wasn’t like I said, “I KILLED JFK!” or “Tattoo Hitler’s likeness on my bunghole,” or anything).

He examined my arm.

“Y’all know that’s going to be huge, right?” He asked doubtfully, as though I’d expected to have to use a magnifying glass to see it.

I pulled down my dress to show him my back. “I’m good with big,” I smiled nervously, hoping I wasn’t about to make a horrifying mistake.

We examined a few pictures of peacock tattoos online until I found one that I liked. Adrenaline pumping, I steadied myself for (apologies to Mötley Crüe ) the Theatre of Pain I was about to endure…that is, until he began to speak to the actual tattoo guy, who said, “well, let’s make her an appointment tomorrow so I can draw this out.”

Fair enough. I didn’t need someone I didn’t know to go all free form on my arm.

But…gulp, TOMORROW? We had the Country Music Hall of Fame and Studio B to tour! And! And! And!

I threw a small temper tantrum inside my mind as I reluctantly made an appointment for the following day. All that wasted adrenaline. We trudged back outside, and did the only thing we could think to do:

We went back to the lavish hotel and ordered burgers.

When the brothers Winklevii didn’t appear with our burgers, I won’t lie, Dawn and I were MORE than a bit disappointed.

Part II will air tomorrow because this shit is LONG, motherfucker.

*note usage of “air quotes.”

Let me preface this post with something I’d meant to say all along:

Divorce, nervous breakdowns, and losing best friends, those are all things that happen to (some of) us. Some of us cope publicly, some privately, each singular situation a personal nightmare for all parties involved. I’ve shared my sides of the stories, but, as any of us knows, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Because this is my personal blog, and not a group blog like Band Back Together, you’re hearing my side of the story. I’ve done my best to explain the situation without pointing fingers, tainting reputations, while still telling you the stories as I’ve experienced them. I don’t write them to hurt the people involved, and I’ve done my level best to explain the series of events as I perceived them.

Have I always succeeded? No. Will I always succeed? No. I’m not perfect and I’m no victim. Nor is Dave.

In the end, we’re both simply two people, trying to find our way in the world.

Which, when you think on it, is what we’re ALL are trying to do.

——————

July 13, 2012

We were on our way to NashVegas, tunes jamming, as I noticed the sheer amount of blown-out tires peppering the Indiana freeway. She was attempting to have a little fun and I was simply pretending that my life was in proper working order again – just for a few days.

“Dude,” I said to Dawn. “What the shit is up with the tires? Are there those spiky roadblocks or zombies or something?”

“I haven’t seen a SINGLE dead animal carcass,” she replied. “WHERE THE SHIT IS THE ROADKILL?”

“I saw a dead something a couple of miles back,” I gestured with my hand. “It was probably a hairy tire.”

“That’d be a GREAT band name,” Dawn gushed. “We should start a band.”

“I’ll totally play a kick-ass kazoo – unless we need a cellist,” I suggested.

“I think a kazoo is more your speed,” Dawn replied, truthfully, drawing the “think” out to be approximately 10 syllables long. Fucking Southerners – they always sound like they’re speaking through a mouth of delicious candy, and I swear that if one of them tried to insult me, I’d probably hug them for being as cute as a tick in a rug (unless it was a knife fight – we ALL know that one should always bring a tampon to a knife fight – it distracts your opponent ESPECIALLY if he is, well, in possession of a dingus).

I nodded – she was right. I can’t really see myself as a “rock cellist.” Disco cellist, perhaps, but alas, I digress.

Before we hit NashTucky proper, Dawn got a gleam in her eye, and not the “I got to pee on you,” kind of gleam. More of a “I’m about to fuck with you,” look. And fuck with me, she did. I’d expect nothing less.

“So,” she announced smugly, clearly proud of herself. “I got you a birthday present. Rachel helped me.”

“Dude,” I responded. “You SO didn’t have to do this – I’m all but pretending the day of my birth is sometime in November. Or October. I always did love October.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Involuntarily, I shuddered.

She reached into the backseat, which she’d thoughtfully filled with things that ended in “andy, “ookies,” “hips,” even though I’d warned her that I’d been unable to keep food down for weeks. She’s thoughtful like that. I don’t always eat, but when I do? Diabeetus.

From the backseat, she grabbed a small nondescript brown cloth bag and handed it to me. “Happy Birthday,” she announced. “It’s from me and Rachel.” I groaned. I work with them on Band Back Together, creating the zillions of resource pages we have, knowing both of them are fairly nefarious and tricky.

I unzipped it as Dawn cackled. First thing I saw? A double box of Lil Debbie Nutty bars, minus one pack. Because we all know that Nutty Bars taste FAR better than skinny feels. I gave Dawn a quizzical look and she shrugged, “I got hungry.”

I nodded – that made sense.

Then, I pulled THIS out:

Because a highlighter that doubles as a sex toy? FULL of the win.

At the very bottom of the bag was a CD. A CD marked, “Becky’s birthday JAMS, beyoch.” I was immediately drenched in an uncomfortably cold sweat, despite the summer crotch I had going on from sitting in the sun for six hours.

“Oh NO,” I moaned.

“Pop that motherfucker in,” Dawn demanded. “Rachel has been waiting all morning to hear what you think.”

I hung my head, terrified by what my two best friends had come up with as appropriate “birthday jams,” for someone who was still recovering from a nervous breakdown and reeling from my upcoming divorce.

She popped it into the car’s CD player with the preface that, “this song came from the ‘Kids’ section of iTunes.”

It was some version of the Beatles “Birthday,” which did not include, as I’d feared, dogs singing, but did have children singing it. I nearly vomited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the next song queued up. The opening strains familiar, I craned my neck so as to better (somehow) figure out what it was. Dawn was alternating between staring at the road and staring at me, waiting for the chords to trickle into the dark, unused recesses of my brain until the lightbulb went on over my head.

He began to sing. Something about the world changing. And I knew exactly who I was listening to, ice water coursing through my veins.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

The next song.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

The next song.

John C. Fucking Mayer.

I sat grimly through the songs, teeth gritted.

“You can change it,” Dawn said, an offer that sounded a lot more like a plea.

I stared at her, a wicked smile drawing out over my face. “Oh HELL no. We’re going to listen to this. Over. And. Over. And Over.”

She gaped at me.

“And,” I said smugly over the irritating strains of John C. Mayer’s voice, coupled with his amazaballs guitar riffs, “Now you own John C. Mayer’s music. You can finally profess your love for him to the whole world.”

She continued with her best trout impression until a wicked smile began to play at the corners of her lips. She began to flip through the CD, pausing briefly on a Rick Astley song (if you haven’t read this, you should – I promise it’s not a video and it WILL make you laugh), just so I could experience the wonder that is Mr. Astley and finally landed at the end of the CD. She turned smugly to me and said, “Eat it, bitch.”

The chords began and immediately I began to tear up. Because OMFG those sad puppies! Those sad kitties! THOSE ANIMALS NEED MY LOVE.

Luckily, I was able to get to the CD in time and turn it off before I began wailing.

Dawn, as per usual, continued cracking up until tears of laughter coursed down her cheeks.

“Imma get the two of you back for this,” I said grimly.

“Just you wait.”

July 13, 2012

I’d had every intention of leaving you with a post, Pranksters, telling you that:

a) I hadn’t gone off the rails of a crazy train, shaved my head and moved to somewhere in Siberia to breastfeed baby Yaks.

2) Getting the hell out of Dodge was the birthday present I was giving myself.

But Thursday got late, and Dawnie got to my house at the ass-crack of dawn on Friday and anyone who owns a mobile device that rhymes with MyPhone understands that posting to a WordPress blog while on a “smart phone*” is nearly impossible. Or maybe, it’s just me.

(it’s not just me)

Sunday, as the always-lovely Avitable reminded you, was my birthday. And despite the recent “series of unfortunate events,” I didn’t feel as though I was particularly immune to my Birthday Curse, which happens to generally be a series of unfortunate and ill-timed events as well. I’ve probably spent more birthdays in ER’s and Urgent Care facilities than anyone under the age of 80 should admit to, but suffice to say, it’s generally DIFFERENT issues, which meant that this year, I was expecting to go big or go home.

So I figured if I died, I may as well be doing something I loved as I went out. Like, for example, going down to Nashville (NashVegas?) with Dawnie.

We hopped into the car, or, more accurately, I slogged my tired ass into the car, around 8AM on Friday and we set off to find some…thing.

“Dawn,” I said. “You’re aware of my birthday curse, right?”

“Yup,” she replied.

“If I get decapitated, please just put my head back on,” I asked.

“Fuck that,” she said, “I’m going to make it hang out of the window.”

“Like a dog?” I asked.

“Something like that,” she gave me A Look.

I stared out the Indiana countryside, marveling at the sheer amount of dead tires on the side of the road, trying to imagine what she meant by that. Was she planning to shrink my severed head and use it as a car ornament? Was she going to let it dangle from the rearview mirror?

“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to be pushy, but I’d like it if you could somehow either reattach my head – maybe with a broom handle or something – or have it nestled in my lap, like I’m holding it.”

She sighed. “I guess,” she replied, clearly unhappy with my demands.

And then we saw it. The most amazing thing I’d seen in at least three minutes:

And for the very barest of moments, all was, at long last, right with the world.

*if my phone can’t cure cancer, it’s not very smart.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

-William Blake

A friend of mine, a great many years ago, once told me, “Jesus Fuck, Becks, can you ever catch a break?”

I don’t believe he was being malicious – it was more a statement of fact than anything else – so I’m certain I simply nodded and smiled, made an off-color joke to distract us both from what would have been a decidedly awkward conversation. There’s very few places one can take a conversation like that without bursting into tears.

I’ve had others echo the same sentiments through the years (and I have met others like me, which makes me believe that I am, at the very least, not alone. If I have done anything good in my life, it is to have created a space with that simple pretext: we are none of us alone; we are all of us connected); my mother, at one point, said, “you can never learn anything the easy way – I feel for you.”

I’ve been so accustomed to these storms, that, most of the time, I can barely enjoy a moment’s peace without waiting for another to touch down, leaving me breathless and shaking, wondering what I’d done in a past life to deserve this. Because come, they always do. Most are (apologies to Douglas Adams) simply a series of unfortunate events strung together in time:

I couldn’t have a single miscarriage; no. I had to have two, back-to-back. When I finally got pregnant again, I immediately fell down the stairs and broke some of the small bones in my feet, which meant that not only could I only wave a bottle of Tylenol near my foot for pain, I then began bleeding, my progesterone levels dangerously low, which meant activity restrictions and the fear that this would be a third consecutive miscarriage. I spent the rest of my pregnancy in Das Boot, chasing after a toddler and house-breaking a puppy who liked to eat poo and then barf it up on the carpet, praying for the safe arrival of my daughter to be safe. She was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect, an encephalocele, and had to go in for neurosurgery at the might age of three weeks. I developed PTSD after experiencing a nervous breakdown, and lost my (at the time) best friend in the world.

Rinse-lather-repeat.

In the face of life, being, as my father always told me as I raged against this or that as a small child, unfair, I’ve learned to carry on, hold my breath and brace myself for the next storm, only occasionally finding the moment’s peace that allows me connection to the rest of the world. They’ll hit me, I know, these storms, knock me off my feet, leave me breathless, send me overboard; the desperation to find something – anything – in the murky chaos of the unknown, to hold tightly onto, until, once again, I can be reeled in, once again looking for my peace.

Life, I’ve begun to understand only recently, is much more about the storms than the peace they attempt to overwhelm.

These storms will always lurk down dark corners, or in the middle of a sunshine-filled day – the type of day that like nothing, ever, could go wrong – always present, always lurking, always ready to, once again, send me flying overboard, once again, looking for any way to get back on deck.

Only this time, I’m done with the notion of clinging for dear life to anything; anyone. Not out of bitterness; no. This time, there will be no one to save me; I’m not – never have been – “little girl lost,” and I don’t need a white knight swooping in to make me whole, to save my life.

It’s time to live life on my terms for the first time. Ever.

The storms won’t cease, and maybe that’s okay; maybe this is simply my lot in life, and instead of fearing these ever-lurking storms, I’m going to embrace them, just as I’ll embrace the few moments of peace and clarity I may have. The cracks, after all, are how the light gets in.

In the past week, I’ve been knocked out, knocked down, faced with one of the biggest storms I’ve (thus far) known, and you know what? My eyes may be blacked and blue, my heart shattered and healing, and yet, in spite of it all, still I remain standing.

It’s what I do.

It’s what I will always do.

And rather than rage at the things that are unfair, the breaks I haven’t caught, the things that will no longer be, I will, instead, embrace these cracks. For it is through these cracks, that even in the darkest of the nights, when my soul feels empty and hollow, that the light – my light – gets in.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

I’d known that we had problems well before The Guy (formerly) On My Couch moved in – problems created by the both of us – and once he moved out, Dave had transformed into a caring and sweet person; the one I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. While I didn’t exactly hope that we’d be dancing through fields of sunflowers or poppies to the tune of “The Most Beautiful Girl In The World,” I’d hoped we could reconcile our differences and come back to the table once I’d finished figuring myself out and becoming well again.

I wasn’t necessarily certain what that would look like, only that perhaps, I’d be able to call him my friend, co-parent our children, and work out a solution that would make us both happier. I had no illusions that our life would somehow magically be perfect again, only that I’d be happy to reevaluate where we both stood.

I said yesterday – and meant it – that no one plans to get divorced. I certainly never expected that I would be sitting here, wondering how I’d manage to afford living alone, whether or not I could truly make enough money blogging to support myself (so that I can get out of an environment that has proven to be toxic to me), wondering how just how badly all of this will fuck up my poor, sweet, innocent babies. Any one of those conundrums are not particularly easy to solve, and having them suddenly thrust into the limelight while I was at my absolute worst was not, perhaps, the most ideal of situations.

Having a nervous breakdown, I’d been informed, was a time in which I had to focus upon me – and me alone – and work toward recovery. That, being something I’d not done before in conceivable history, and something I was attempting to try and understand.

This whole divorce-thing threw a wrench into the whole damn thing. I couldn’t be getting better if I was attempting to secure my financial stability, my well-being, and focus on recovery and getting healthy.

I honestly don’t where this will take me.

I hope to get back to writing and working on my blog, feeling that the curtain of secrecy is now lifted helps a lot – it’s impossible for me to feel like I have this space – my space – and be unable to truly share what’s going on in my life. I hope that I’ll have some time to really work on my book. I’m hoping to focus on the things I can do rather than all the intangibles I cannot. Knowing that two of the biggest pillars of support in my life have – in one short week – have chosen not to stand by me, well, that’s not exactly the way I’d expected to spend my recovery and my birthday.

I will take each day as it comes – each second, if I have to – and I will work toward rebuilding.

Because I must, once again, rebuild.

I’m just so weary; so, very weary.

And I wonder what it’s gonna take.

Part I

Part II

Part III

My heart’s like an open book,
For the whole world to read.
Sometimes, nothing keeps me together
At the seams.

-Motley Crue

I’d been sitting there, on the edge on my couch, staring out into the cold, January night, where daylight appears to last ten minutes, the icicles shimmering happily in the streetlights, occasionally flipping through a trashy magazine, wondering when bone-skinny got to be the new black.

I finally stopping flipping through the pages and began to read when I got to the article wherein Giuliana Rancic was discussing her breast cancer (NOW you know how long ago this was), because, well, we Chicago girls stick together (Norrrtth SIIIIIIIIIIIIDE!). In the article, she discussed the treatment of her cancer, and how she’d been vacillating between one option and another.

The way she told the story, her husband, Bill, (North SIIIIIIDDDDDEEEE!) sat down and held her as he told her that she had to do what offered her the best chances at recovery and that he would be by her side, every step of the way; that he loved her and would love her no matter what.

That normally sweet sentiment would generally have one of two effects upon me:

1. Gag
2. *barfs*

Instead, I found myself weeping, alone, on a cold January night.

I wept, not for Giuliana Rancic, or her sweet husband, Bill, but for what might have been. I’d known for some time that Dave no longer loved me – it’s not the sort of sentiment like, “Hey honey, can you pick up some honey for my tea on your way home from work?” that you can forget. Those are words that cannot be unsaid and unheard, no matter how you try. And I did try, believe me, I did.

I remember my marriage counseling class, given by the church we were to be married in. The couples, we all sat around a long chipped table, covered in that hideous brown fake wood veneer, and I tried my hardest not to scribble out a “Becky Rules!” on an area in front of me that someone before me had peeled away the plastic covering, leaving an open white space that the former bad-ass I’d once been longed to fill.

I smiled about the serendipity of it all – I’d spent many years in that room as a child, practicing for this youth orchestra or that, and now, it felt I’d come full-circle, sitting there with my husband-to-be, listening to a dour old lady talk to us about conflict resolution, communication techniques, as well as filling out a personality inventory (which, for the record, gave me absolutely no insights into myself or Daver, it simply told me what I’d already known). I walked out of there, hand-in-hand with my fiance, our foot-falls echoing the hallways of the church, practically bouncing with smug superiority: I’d beaten the odds, gone from a single mother eking her way through nursing school, to having graduated with some variation of cum laude and now I was going to be a married lady. It wasn’t my life as I’d expected it, but here I was, and I was happy.

“Pshaw,” I remarked to Dave at one point, my superiority flag flying high. “WE won’t get divorced.” Like anyone steps up to the alter with the intention of later stepping up to a judge, saying, “Irreconcilable differences, Your Honor.”

But no. I was so fucking smug about it – I’d finally found the right man, a great father for my son, what could go wrong? He’d seen me at my worst – and I his, what more was there? Divorce happens to *waves hand* OTHER PEOPLE. Not to people like us.

Except here I was, sobbing stupidly into my People magazine, light years from where that smug 2o-something once stood, realizing that, not only does divorce happen to people like me, it has happened to us. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but I knew it was coming. Too many words unsaid or unheard, a chasm as wide as Soldier Field now separating us, there was nothing left to be done.

We’d spent some time in couple’s counseling (which came about after this), in which I learned that Dave had been carrying a backpack full of resentments toward me regarding things that had happened so many years before – those resentments led him to lash out at me, emotionally withdraw, clearly unsure of what to do with me. At one point he told me, “I can’t deal with your problems.” Whenever I’d bring up things like, “my PTSD acting up,” he’d sigh a semi-disgusted sigh; the sort that said (without words), “Another problem? Jesus fuck, woman.”

I eventually stopped telling him.

I felt weak. I felt like having “problems” meant that I was a miserable excuse for a human being – my problems clearly the sign of a shitty character. Who could love someone like that? Someone like me?

And, he’d asked me, once we were separated, yet living under the same roof, after I’d written this, to not speak of our separation, so that we could go it alone. I respected it. Protecting him and trying to pretend that my life hadn’t been drastically altered, however, came with some unexpected side effects: I lost my voice. No longer could I pour whatever was into my heart onto a keyboard. No longer could I tell the world how I’d ached and cried or laughed and smiled. It all had to be said through a fake filter – written several steps removed from my actual life.

Losing my words took a toll far greater than I’d expected. I felt I was living a double life: the one I presented to the world, and my real life; the space in which things, well, they weren’t so funny.

It finally came to a boiling point last night.

The night before, I’d shared my goals for recovery, my plans for the future, my hopes and ambitions, as I sobbed into my blankie. He informed me of the things he needed, and mentioned that nowhere in my soliloquy had I mentioned “staying at home with the kids” or “keeping a clean house,” which prompted the suggestion that “perhaps it would be better for my recovery for me to move out.”

(blink, blink, blink)

Not being particularly rash, or prone to throwing things around the room, I instead thought about that offer.

I mulled it over all night and the following day (yesterday): Could I afford moving out? Could I (with my migraines) manage to go back to work? Would I go on public aid? Would I have insurance? Where could I live? What would I do? Why would now be the time to think about these things if I was (per the both of us) supposed to be focusing on my recovery?

I sat down last night and told Dave that after thinking it all through, I was planning to move out. I wasn’t sure where, I wasn’t sure if I could afford it, but I’d be moving out, getting my head straight, and returning to be with my children. He offered to sign all the divorce papers so that I’d get some alimony.

As for me? I just wanted – and still want – to get better. To feel safe, loved, respected. To work on myself and begin the road to recovery. I wanted the time to heal and grow and make the right choices for myself. To not see my failures played out upon the features of Dave’s face every time I turned around.

Where that will take me? I don’t know.

Nervous Breakdown: 4

Aunt Becky: 0

And that, my dear friends is the way my marriage has ended – not with a bang, but a whimper.

Part I

Part II

The seconds ticked by, each yawning into the next as though time had truly decided that now it was appropriate to take a break and stand-still. I sat shaking like a Chihuahua at my computer, hoping I’d be able to find that I had some miracle answer; some cure, something to stave off the emptiness gnawing through my gut.

I’d considered the ER, but The Guy (now formerly) On My Couch had my car and I’d asked him to take me, in the vain hopes that the ER staff could change my anti-depressant (not so I could get locked in a padded room – I had no “plans” for a suicide*) or offer me something – anything – to help out, considering my doctor’s office had turned into something out of Oregon Trail – no running water, phone lines, or electricity.

He told me that he could not, in fact, take me to the ER, but that he could drop me off, if I so chose. If there’s anything worse than the thought of sobbing alone in an ER room (perhaps sobbing in the middle of a busy restaurant?), I’m not sure what it is. I said a quick, “thanks but no thanks,” and continued my weeping. I figured the black eyes this would cause would be a pretty awesome fashion statement.

When none appeared, I decided that some trashy television might be the answer. I grabbed my comfort object, my blankie, and my pillows and curled myself up into my wee nest on the couch. From the “Shows You Might (Not) Like” on the Netflix queue, I selected the one show I’d always been curious about – Intervention – and began to watch it.

Pro-Tip: while feeling semi-suicidal and bone-crushingly depressed, do NOT watch Intervention. While it may feel good to say, “wow, I’m glad I’m not THAT person,” when the Intervention fails and the person falls back into their old ways, you’re not left with a particularly positive outlook.

I ended the second episode even more depressed than when I’d begun. My mother had taken the kids for a bit that afternoon, after I called hysterically, begging her to help me.

So by the time I turned off the episode of Intervention, The Guy on my Couch, and my very best friend on the planet had come home from work.

“Hi,” he called to the eerily quiet house.

“I’m out here,” I called back.

He came into the room and sat next to my feet at the edge of the couch, where he’d sat so many nights, watching TV with me. He gave me a hug and I cried a little onto his clean work shirt, which smelled strongly of the outside.

“Sorry I just boogered on you,” I said, a little sheepishly. Having him there made things a little better for me – I was no longer alone.

“S’okay,” he said, “How’s it going?”

(cue weeping because Lord knows, the moment someone inquires after my well-being, my response is to cry like an asshole)

“N-n-n-not so good,” I said. “But I’m going to my doctor tomorrow and the therapist on Thursday. I’m working on getting better – making the right steps.”

“Good,” he replied, a little uncomfortably. “So, I’m going to need to talk to you or Dave about the logistics of moving out.”

“Talk to Dave,” I replied, the tears streaming down my cheeks. “I can barely figure out if I have to pee or not.”

I’d known, to be fair, that The Guy (now formerly) On My Couch was planning to move – he’d spent the weekend checking out places to move, I’d just assumed it was at a *waves hand* far off time way in the future. So when he said this, I expected that he meant a *waves hand* far off time way in the future.

Wrong assumption.

A couple of minutes later, I asked him, “When are you moving?” assuming his answer would be a *waves hand* far off time way in the future.

“Tonight,” he replied, suddenly interested in staring his shoes.

My jaw dropped as I did my best trout impression, “TONIGHT?”

I couldn’t fathom it – I understood the motivations behind his departure (probably more than anyone else) but the timing was atrocious. I did the only thing a non-sane person could do, I began to scream at him. Appropriate? No. Out of character? Yes.

The children arrived home as I sat on my couch, sobbing and snorting into my snot-filled Kleenex like some overgrown toddler: my very best friend was leaving when I needed him the most. The kids came home and piled onto the two of us (no easy feat, considering we were on separate ends of a couch) like they did to us every day. I hugged them and sent them off to the other room to put on some cartoons with a potentially annoying lead character (which, let’s face it, is all of them).

The surge of anger died down as I hugged my best friend in the world, one of the few people who really knew me, and said, “Happy Trails.”

He grabbed his things, waved a sad goodbye to me, his face drawn and wan, and walked out of the door, ready to face his new life.

The sobs wracked through my body as though my heart were breaking. Which, I suppose, it was.

This time, all three of my children bounded into the room, hands outstretched and overflowing with Band-Aids and (oddly) some fish stickers. I thanked them as they covered all visible parts of my body, hugging them close enough that I could feel their tiny heartbeats.

And for one moment – one single moment – my heart felt as though it hadn’t just shattered.

*A big part of suicide is The Plan – if one has a plan as to how they intend to suicide, they are considered more of a risk for actually going through with the attempt. Thanks for the info, Nursing School!

Go Ask Aunt Becky is a purely useless advice column I’ve been running for years (although I’ve been on a recent hiatus). You ask me a question – I try to find you a better answer than “pants are bullshit.” You may always submit your questions through the link at the top. Be warned, I am not a professional – I don’t even play one on TV.

(insert more disclaimers)

Driver does not carry cash.

Dear Aunt Becky,

How is a person supposed to live the rest of her life and maintain her Tiny Tower? Balance is… Hang on, gotta stock the shoe store… Where was I? Oh. Right. How can I keep this game from consuming my soul?

Love,

Me.

—————–

Dear Prankster,

In order to best explain how one can go about living a life while playing Tiny Tower, I have made you a Venn Diagram. It took me an embarrassingly long time to make it, but let’s pretend I just “whipped it up for you,” like those creepy Pinterest people who are all LOOK AT MY HOMEMADE GOODNESS, YOU LAME ASS SLACKERS! HOW DARE YOU NOT CHURN BUTTER WHILE I GROW MY FANCY ORGANIC SHIT (can you pick up a pizza on the way home, honey? I was too busy pinning healthy shit on Pinterest).

So I “whipped up” (lie) this Venn Diagram for you in order to best explain how one balances life and Tiny Tower:

I hope that explains it, Prankster. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stock my Balls On Ur Face Racquet Ball Court before I fly my Pocket Plane to such exotic destinations as “Detroit” and “Seattle.”

—————–

I know that my site is still janked up – you can blame the WordPress update for that (all together now: “THANKS WORDPRESS!”) and I’m hoping to fix it on up soon.

I have some other stuffs to write about this week – I’m nowhere back to normal yet, but I wanted to thank you – each of you – who has bothered to leave me some love. You don’t know how your words have buoyed my soul and shone a light in the darkness.

So, thank you. Thank you, Pranksters.