Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve got a bit of an issue. I hate my family. But at the same time, I cannot help but love them. My wife becomes extremely exasperated at their antics, into which they continually drag me. As my wife put it to me recently, I go through cycles. I’ll be in a phase where I’ll gladly hang out with them and socialize and whatnot, until I realize once again what fuckwads they are, and I’ll have nothing to do with them for another month, until shenanigans begin once more.

In addition to continually getting caught up in the drama, I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at the way they live. I’m frustrated that my brothers take advantage of my mother, that my mother cannot get her finances straight to save her life, that my other brother cannot save his own relationship/finances/family, that my step father will not fix his health issues (which are of the sort which could be fixed with some effort). I guess I somehow feel as though I dragged myself out of the hole from which I came, why can’t they?

My question is thus twofold. How do I find a happy medium in my association with my family, and how do I accept that they are who they are and if they want to change they’ll call it into existence without my help or agitation?

Mystern

On the one hand, Prankster Mystern, I want desperately to be tragically glib in my answer here, and say something about creating a Pavlovian response to punch yourself in the face every time you feel as though you need to change your family from being the fuckwads they are into the more responsible people the can be.

On the much less medicated other, I think most of us can deeply sympathize with quandary. I don’t know a single one of us who doesn’t have at least one family member or close friend who doesn’t make the sorts of decisions that make us want to stab ourselves in the face with dull pencils.

But as the child of addicts, I can tell you (seriously) this: you cannot accept responsibility for other people.

So that’s my honest suggestion to every single one of you, my darling Pranksters, (and something I should tattoo on myself): your only responsibility is to yourself. The very moment you begin feeling as though you are frustrated with their behavior, you need to take a step back and assess. Can you continue contact without driving yourself to drink heavily? Is this a relationship that has merits?

And if the answer is “I don’t fucking know, Aunt Becky, shut your whore mouth,” come and sit next to me, because I think that’s how we all feel most of the time.

Family, man. Family.

(There’s a reason I adopted the Internet.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I wrote to you about a crush in the past, I thought it was crazy, It kinda of turned into a bootie call.. though I will clarify been friends for a time prior, so maybe it means friends with benefits..

So I am confused, I know he doesn’t want a relationship (a committed one anyways) he is very honest and open, I totally appreciate this.. But here is my confusion. What went from just sex, he now calls making love.. I don’t understand… anyway, I love this guy dearly he is like my best friend, I was afraid to lose this friendship.. I wanna know should I tell him I wanna back off on the sex a bit? It’s phenomenal.. I have never had a g-spot orgasm until I met him; never mind the mind blowing regular O’s I get.. It’s like we were make for each other sexually… I think I am okay with my feelings making sure I don’t fall for him.. But I wanna fall in love with a man who wants to be with me..not just a guy who will have sex with me as I am (i am overweight and it doesn’t bother him)

I am afraid I am damaged..because I haven’t fallen for this guy, I think my past relationship (baby daddy) ruined me.

I am sorry this is confusing huh? should I end the sex and move on.. but hopefully keep the friendship? because losing the friendship would break my heart.. or should I just keep have mind blowing sex with him until i find someone to love?

Prankster, I don’t think you’re damaged for not falling for this guy, I think you’re protecting your heart. It sounds as though he’s made it clear that while you guys can have steamy sex (which sounds fabulous, by the by), he’s not interested in dating you. And you know you want more than that. Which says a lot about you.

I sort of want to dance around the room singing some sort of Prince song (Pussy Control, perhaps?) with you because I love you for it. You deserve BOTH a guy who can make your vagina do the tango AND make your heart flippity-flop in your chest. Don’t forget it.

Now, as far as your current situation, maybe it’s time to sit down and see what’s what. If you don’t want to lose the friendship you have, it sounds like you guys need to have A Talk and figure out where the other stands (he’s sending out some wicked mixed messages). Otherwise, it’s going to be hella awkward when one of you meets someone that you do want to settle down with.

Prankster, please remember being overweight is NOT a reason not to have someone want to have The Sex with you. Don’t sell yourself short! And can I say that I heart you? Because I do. xo.

Dear Pranksters,

Do you remember this post? I do. Well, we got a response from the asker in the comments of the post. I’ll paste it below:

Thank you all so much for your support, and thanks Aunt Becky for the links and info.

I did leave!

After he threatened to kill me if I left him, then told me to get out, my son and I moved in with my parents while my soon-to-be-ex husband was on a business trip out of the country. He left on Thursday the 28th, and on Friday the 29th I was handing my parents’ credit card to the lawyer while my son was at preschool and my parents, sister and her mother-in-law were clearing room in their house.

The next day sister’s mother-in-law brought her dad to help. I had everything out by 10 pm Sunday the 31st. My neighbor helped my son get his jack-o-lantern carved Saturday, my dad took us around the block trick-or-treating like always, then Sunday the little pumpkin went to a church festival with the neighbor’s 2 kids.

While he was gone my husband placed a “morale call” from the base he was staying on and found out I was leaving. He freaked out and his boss had him brought home Tuesday. I filed reports and swore out warrants Wednesday for domestic violence-harassment and harassing communications (53 text messages Tuesday afternoon)- there will be a protection order in place as a condition of release.

I filed for divorce Thursday. He hasn’t been served yet, but he will be.

And he will flip when he sees that petition.

My mom found me a good lawyer. My sister found a safe house for my mom and son to stay in until I get a custody order so my husband can’t take him. I haven’t missed a day of work this week, and my anxiety is starting to lift.

Of course I carry my (licensed) pistol with me everywhere. But that’s okay. That’s why he bought it for me: to defend myself.

The funny thing is, my son seems to totally understand why we left and he’s fine with it, I think he’s relieved too. He’s asked for me, his kitten, and his Batman toy. Not for his daddy. He’s playing with gramma, the horses, the dogs, and the wonderful Christian people who will keep them and hide them and keep them safe. He’s sleeping well, eating better than he ever has, and being a good boy. He asked me on Wednesday before we left if we could go live with gramma’s new kitty. Little did he know!

Thank you all Pranksters for your encouragement! I cried as I read your comments. I thought I had cried all the tears in the world already, but these were tears of joy that so many who have never met me would show me such love! You all are The Awesome! I know I still have a long row to hoe, but I have lots of stuff on tape, and some other stuff that should be sufficient to protect me and my son from my husband.

I love you all.

There’s a blaze of light in every word, indeed, Pranksters.

Love to each of you. Always,

Aunt Becky

SPOILER ALERT: I still have my drains. The upside? I’m feeling somuchbetter. Possibly because I’m ALSO weaning myself from The Max (Topamax)(GOD, I hate writing drug words, because then I am spammed to BALLS with “farmacies” selling me knock-off drugs, which is the opposite of awesome. Normally, I’m just spammed about Ugg Boots, which is working, because I’m now dying for a pair of them. Well played, Spammers) while I’m on hardcore narcotics.

And while you’ve been busy, living your life, THIS is what I’ve been thinking about:

*I’ve started writing a weekly Open Letter To Something on Mushroom Printing. This week, I wrote to my abdominal muscles. Last week, I wrote to vomit. Because OBVIOUSLY.

*When presented with this, the answer is always yes:

You all know how badly I want a Robot Monkey Butler named Mr. Pinchey, right? I used to want a REAL monkey butler, but I think PETA would be all up my ass if I got one, and besides, I don’t want my face ripped off. *makes Zoolander Face*

*Zoolander Face*

*I require this dress.

Okay, so not THIS one specifically, but one JUST LIKE IT.

So, Pranksters, if you should choose to accept this mission and find me this dress, I will hump you forever. Or, at least, uh, NOT hump you? WHATEVER YOU WANT.

*OR, I could give you this cookbook I found.

Aunt Becky + Rachael Ray = NOT BFF.

Why? I DON’T KNOW. I think she’s too happy for me.

I found THIS cookbook on my shelf and got WICKED confused. Like REALLY confused. We ALL know I don’t cook. And EVERYONE who knows me knows that Rachael Ray and I are NOT OKAY with each other. And somehow, THIS was on my shelf. THIS was NOT DIAMONDS. THIS WAS RACHAEL RAY.

I was stampy. HORRIFIED. This may be the source of all bad karma in my life. How long had it sat on my shelf? And WHERE had it come from? I simply didn’t know.

I STILL don’t know. At least the Williams-Sonoma books came from a recognizable source (my stupidity). I think I’m going to run some sort of contest to get rid of those cookbooks. Like, MAKE ME AWESOMESAUCE and get some ridiculous cookbooks.

*Earlier today, I tweeted this post on Band Back Together about Gender Non-Conformity.

(my manly butterfly says FUCK YOU to gender stereotypes, by the by)

Normally I tweet Band Back Together stuff from the Band Back Together Twitter Account. I recognize that the people on my Mommy Wants Vodka Twitter are normally expecting status updates like, “I JUST TOOK A POO, PLZ RT” so I try to keep the do-gooding to a minimum on there. But the gender non-conformity piece and occasional other pieces, well, when I see awesome ones (and don’t be offended if I do not, because I do not edit everything), I tweet them. I just can’t overwhelm people who expect status updates on my vagina.

(P.S. I hate having to think like that).

Well, this is what happened.

Let me show that to you a little closer.

That cause would PROBABLY be you. WHOOPS. And ROCK ON. I’m PROUD. Crash away, Pranksters. CRASH AWAY.

(no seriously, please crash the shit out of it. I’ll buy more space)

*Also: my rose is defiantly thumbing its nose at November.

Note my finger at the bottom. I expect a GRAMMY for this picture.

I should probably warn you that surgery is very, very glamorous. Like, I don’t even know how to tell you how glamorous it is to be me right now. You should all be jealous, Pranksters.

I mean, first, I get to use THESE (beloved by old people everywhere):

Oh yeah. FAKE BATH WIPES. I don’t get to take showers yet, so I get to use these bad boys. Get jealous, Pranksters. I smell like AWESOME.

Know why I can’t take showers?

My JP Drains. Even the name “drain” sounds like magic, don’t you agree?

(you do agree, I just know it.)

I’ll spare you the shots of MY drains, suffice to say that they look like aliens exploding from the binder on my chest, should I attempt to cover them up with a shirt. Although, really, why would I want to cover up such awesomeness?

Simple answer, I wouldn’t.

But I am hoping to have the doctor take them out today. I called yesterday about what I thought might be a popped stitch, and he thinks it’s just the nerves waking back up (HELLO HORRIFYING). I’m going in to see him, just to be on the safe side, which means (I hope) GOOD BYE DRAINS.

So tell me, Pranksters, how are YOU today?

Things that are bullshit:

My walls are butt-ugly. I know this because I’ve been staring at them for like 900 hours straight.

I need to call the doctor because I think I popped an internal stitch. I don’t KNOW this, but I think I did. Popping stitches is kinda bullshit.

Bedrest? More bullshit than you’d think. Especially when cockroach-y like myself. I’m sort of unable to move on my own, which sucks, because I AM alone today.

That song “All By Myself” is going through my head. That song is bullshit.

Spell check doesn’t recognize bedrest as a word, which makes me feel invalidated and insecure especially since Spell Check doesn’t think “Rebecca” is a word either, which it SO CLEARLY IS.

I have no Vicodin-Chip cookies because I am too sore to make them.

I found a number of cookbooks in my house when I was purging it. Cookbooks in my house are bullshit because I don’t cook. Especially WILLIAM SONOMA Cookbooks. Who the fuck did I think I was when I bought those? Martha Fucking Stewart?

Silent letters. What. The Fuck?

Things That Are NOT Bullshit:

Adding a silent “balls” to things when they’re awesome. Like silent letters, but better.

MY NEW SHIRTS ARE IN.

VEGAS, baby. December 10-12. I (still) Do is going on at the same time, so I’m joining forces with them so we can properly paint the town many shades of glitter. They’ve secured a block of hotel rooms at the MGM Grand and are having parties. I was just going to try and reenact Fear and Loathing and Las Vegas.

More bloggers means they can bail us out of jail we’re all, THIS HERE IS BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.

Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. They’re SO not bullshit.

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.

How’s that for dramatic? Because I figured I should be dramatic since really, I’ve been doing a whole lot of sitting on my ass since I’ve been here last. Well, okay, TECHNICALLY, I slept some in there, too, but really, I laid on my back and squiggled around like a bug while approximating sleep because frankly, sleeping on your back sucks a fat one. I know people are all breezily like, “sleeping on your back is good for your chi,” or some shit, but so is eating free-range organic pesticide, sweat-shop free paste. And I like Uncrustables.

Shockingly, I am still not running marathons.

Frankly, I’m still not able to take showers. Which means I’m a cockroach that twirls in the air when I’m on my back while smelling bad. Which means that you should come over immediately, if not sooner.

I’m going to the doctor today to hear how I am doing with this whole recovery thing. I’m trying to be a good patient and not be all, ‘Am I better yet?‘ every forty-five seconds to The Daver who is probably ready to set me out with tonight’s garbage. And if he sets me out on my back, see, I can’t get up (read: I am the cockroach in Kafka), so it’s likely they’ll toss me into the dumpster with the landfill-clogging shitty baby diapers.

I haven’t seen them yet, but I now have pictures of my incision. It goes from BEYOND one hip to BEYOND the other. Which? RAD. I have a feeling I will look like a jaunty smiley face when I am done healing.

ALSO? And even more wicked rad?

I HAVE A NEW BELLY BUTTON.

Oh yes, Pranksters, my old saggy belly button that had scars from my multiple piercings? GONE. In it’s place is a new, improved belly button.

I’m going to get a sign that says, “MY BELLY BUTTON BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD.” Because it totally will. Once it’s done being covered in tiny stitches, because right now, I don’t think any boys are going to be all, “damn right, it’s better than hers.” I wonder if my troll who called me navel grazing knew that I might take him so…seriously.

Except no, I don’t care about trolls so much.

But I have to tell you about the ones that were all up in my shit on the Toy With Me article last week. They hurted my feelers and made me sad in the pants. Because, Pranksters, you’ll like this: I got someone who got pretty pissed about it. Now, I was in surgery when the Shit Went Down. When I came out, the last thing I wanted to do was to be all WHAT’S THE INTERNET DOING!?! so I didn’t check until Friday.

On Friday, I saw that while I was under the knife, someone had been being all In My Face over there and THEN, had gone to the trouble of blocking me on The Twitter. Which, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I’m in surgery, you moron. I’m not getting up to engage in a flame war.

Whatever. Now I’m just all, IS THE RHYTHM REALLY GONNA GET ME LIKE GLORIA ESTEFAN SAID? Because, freaky.

(thanks to my Twitter friend I will later link to for putting that horrid idea in my head)

OH! And I shared an incredibly personal story about antenatal depression, which TOTALLY does not match the tone of this whacked out post here on Postpartum Progress. I wrote it BEFORE I was stoned and on heavy-duty painkillers. Which, heh, yeah. You should read it. It’s important. This post, however, my old ass troll would LOVE.

OMFGBBQ, PRANKSTERS, I MISSED YOU. You don’t even KNOW how much I missed you. I missed you so much that I am actually sitting here, crouched over my computer like a Letter C, in actual pain, because I missed of you and was sad in the pants because I WAS SO VERY ALONE (and lonesome) WITHOUT YOU.

I think that means I’m alive. That, or death looks remarkably like my life.

Since I do not have long in this Letter C position before I pass out from lack of oxygen, I will give you the highlights.

I woke up from The Surgery in the post-op recovery room to someone singing the pina colada sing. If you don’t know it, be glad. (Or, at the very least, know that you’ve probably never sung listened to other people warble bad bar karaoke as much as I have.)

Anyway, I like the song because I am 12 and I have changed the words from, “If you like pina colada’s and dancing in the rain…” to “if you like PENIS COLADA’S and dancing in the rain.” Which is much awesomer, and far more hilarious, BECAUSE GET IT!?! PENIS COLADA!?!

HILARIOUS.

Then I was all, “So, what did the surgeon say?” because frankly, who doesn’t want to know how their motherfucking surgery went? And the nurse was all, “you’ve asked me that four times” like I was an asshole idiot for not remembering that. I mean, hi, POST-OP RECOVERY ROOM. She should have been glad I wasn’t flinging my shit around. Ass.

Still, no one told me about my surgery. For all I knew, I could have gotten a nose job instead. Which I hadn’t wanted.

So, finally, they moved me to my floor, where Dave told me that the surgery went well. I don’t know what that means, suffice to say that they took off 6 pounds of crap, moved a bunch of muscles around and gave me morphine through a button that I could press whenever I wanted. That was more than “well,” but you know.

THEN, I got my roommate. Pranksters, she needed a taco kick because apparently, she’d never heard of the concept of an “inside voice” or “personal space.” The moment I arrived, she began to shriek. Not like, in anguish, just like her normal speaking tone. Bitch couldn’t fucking shut her whore mouth. For four hours. At one point, she was arguing with her mother, talking on the phone AND watching television while inviting her husband to bring her food. At 8 PM. I’d been trying to nap off the surgery for that entire time to no avail. She had no medical reason to be there other than she seemed to enjoy the attention.

It was then when I informed the staff that one of us would be moving.

I must have looked serious because they moved her right away.

Anyway.

I’m home now and while I’d like to say that laying around and recovering is full of the awesome, I’m kind of bored. Also: in some pretty bad pain. I’d describe what I’ve been doing, but primarily it involves “sitting on the couch,” “peeing” and “laying down.” If I had wet paint, I’d be watching it dry. If there was grass growing, I’d be watching that, too.

I’m wearing a binder, which means I can’t eat, which also explains why those ladies in the 1900’s were skinny. Binders = corsets = HOLY SHIT, NO ROOM IN THE INN.

Also, I feel like a cockroach. You never realize how much you use your abs for until they’re all “peace out, asswipe.” If I’m stuck in bed, I’m still stuck there until I’m later retrieved. It’s pretty good punishment, I guess.

Now I’m left to moulder on the couch and debate the true question of the ages: who sang the better version of “Hair of the Dog?”

Tomorrow, I will surgery.

That sounded so epic in my head. Like something you’d hear from a particularly dramatic scene in one of those annoying dramatic movies I don’t watch because they’re filled with trite dialog like, “Tomorrow, I will surgery…” stares off into the distance poignantly, perhaps clutching a heart locket or maybe a tattered book.

Either way, I’m scheduled to go under the knife tomorrow sometime. Because it’s the hospital, they don’t exactly GIVE you a time and then stand by it or anything. Dave can’t comprehend that, which means it’s a good thing he doesn’t work in medicine, or his head might explode into pulpy bits because he simply cannot comprehend how something cannot be at! a! given! time!

I mean, I get it. When I worked as a floor nurse, people would be all, “when is radiology coming to get me for my imaging study?” and I’d be all, “sometime today,” knowing ‘today’ is a nebulous concept in a hospital, where variables upon variables stack upon one another. Someone urgent needs the CT scan or the OR and you get booted from your time slot. Tough shit, home slice. Except you can’t SAY that to a patient even if you want to because, well, OBVIOUSLY.

So I’m assuming that I’ll have surgery. Except that maybe I won’t. Because shit happens, man.

But in the event that I do indeed have The Surgery, I’m really excited. I’m nervous, too, but really, I’m excited. It’s nice to finally be able to have a dream that I can accomplish. Okay, that was too Lifetime Movie of the Week for me.

In the event that I have The Surgery tomorrow, I’m thrilled because I’ll FINALLY have an excuse to lay around pop pain pills while I make others do my bidding. THAT is pretty much my life’s dream.

And uh, DRUGS ARE BAD, KIDS, Look at Your Aunt Becky. You don’t want to turn out like Your Aunt Becky. Remember that the next time you’re offered drugs by a gang of peer-pressuring street thugs. Or Lil Wayne. He’s a walking anti-drug campaign.

Scared straight yet, bitches?

Tomorrow it is.

Hopefully, I won’t die. Because that would suck.

I’ll update as I can from the hospital (yay! WI-FI) as I am staying overnight and likely housed with a roommate who will probably be a total psychopath, which means I will get zero sleep, so YOU will get drug-addled posts about the BUBBLE PEOPLE ATTACKING ME ZOMG THE BUBBLE PEOPLE, but I may or may not be up to returning emails.

Especially if they begin:

“Dear Blogger, we think your readers will love…”

Also: Wrote about body image at Toy With Me.

I pretty much live in the awesomest neighborhood ever. There’s a house that passes out beer and “severed fingers” (hot dogs) to the parents. Someone up the block makes Irish coffee. A couple other people make mini-haunted houses for the older kids. Really, you can’t go wrong.

And I love Halloween. I haven’t been feeling well lately, so I didn’t get as into it this year as I normally do, but you know, can’t win at life ALL THE TIME.

I didn’t know what to expect this year. Ben shrieked for his first three Halloweens, Alex was flabbergasted for his first two, and Amelia was merely indifferent last year.

This year, Alex and Ben were full of the excited for Halloween.

I’m motherfucking fluttering, okay?

When Amelia saw Ben dressed like this, she ran around the house going, “ARRRR!” Because she knows a pirate says, “ARRRR.”

She rules.

Now the only child without a costume was Amelia. It’s not that we didn’t WANT to get her a costume or that we were all, “YOU CAN’T HAVE A COSTUME, AMELIA,” it’s just that every time any one of us tried to explain the concept of Halloween, we realized how absurd it sounded:

“So, we dress up as other people and then go ask our neighbors for candy.”

“We put on costumes and trick-or-treat.”

“We go door-to-door dressed up and say, ‘trick or treat.'”

Yeah. It sounds like that.

So of course, Amelia was baffled and I wasn’t about to drop a significant amount of cash on something that baffled her, so instead, I picked her out a reasonable costume at Old Navy, and figured at worst, she could wear some jammies. She’s a little girl. Who cares? If someone had an issue with a non-dressed up ickle girl, they could talk to my Fists of Fury.

When I got the costume in the mail, though, I made a big deal of presenting it to her, like it was this big prize. “OH AMELIA, LOOK AT THIS PRETTY PRETTY THING!”

She took a look at it, grabbed it from my hands and threw it on the ground and began to stop on it. I grabbed it away before she could take a shit on it. Her fury was hilarious if not slightly baffling. It was a fairy princess costume, not something that should really have evoked ire in a toddler. I mean, this is the child who loves pink, sparkles and Mary Janes. She’s my daughter, after all.

But…okay. To the closet it went.

Until yesterday.

She saw her brothers dressed up, and as she was getting on her ballerina jammies, on a whim, I grabbed out the Fairy Princess costume to show her.

She grabbed it from my hands, and instead of attempting to take of her diaper to take a whizz on it, she lovingly caressed it, then hooted her desire to put it on. When it was safely on, she ran over to the mirror to take a look at herself in the pretty dress. She smiled.

Then she went up to her eldest brother, stole his sword and the costume was complete:

It’s Amelia The Pirate Fairy, BITCH.

Where Alex, my ickle Jay was afraid to go from house to house the first year he could toddle around, Amelia marched up to each door, hooted when she got her candy, and ran as fast as her thunder thighs would allow her to the next house, keeping handily up with her brothers.

I swear, Pranksters, I was misty with pride. My girl, she’s fierce.

AMELIA, FUCK YEAH.

P.S. You should visit my home slice Peggy and her Etsy shop. Why? Because she’s crafty and I’m not.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I hesitated to ask this question, because deep down, I think I know the answer, I just don’t want to believe it.

My husband of 6+ years has developed a noticeably heavier drinking habit lately than he has had in the 9+ years that I have known him. We have a 4.5 year old son together. I love my husband, but the Dr.Jekyll/Mr. Hyde syndrome is wearing down my nerves, my energy, and my self-esteem.

He has begun to curse at me in front of our son, tell me that I am not allowed to eat dinner and then throw it away. He has threatened to forcibly have sex with me. He’s told me that he will have me committed. I suffer from anxiety and depression for the last 3.5 years but am stable and compliant on my meds, seeing my counselor regularly. He tells me that I am fat, stupid, lazy, a lousy housekeeper, a bad mother…

I work 6 nights a week every week, do almost all of the housekeeping, the laundry and ironing, most of the child care when our son is not in daycare, and pay all the bills.

I am also trying to go to college. I love my husband, and here and there I dream of happily-ever-after – which he says is fairy-tale bullshit. “This is what marriage is” he says. I don’t want my little boy to grow up without his dad, but I don’t want him to grow up LIKE him even more. I am thinking that I should leave. Take my son and move out.

Part of me wants to have more class about it than his last wife did (surprised?), part of me wants to take everything but the house and let him have back a piece at a time until he gives me what I want: full custody. I think he loves our son, but he has a cruel streak and refers to him as a “son of a bitch” or a “motherfucker” within his hearing. I do not think that he is good for our son in the state he’s in now with the drinking and the verbal abuse and bullying. I am scared: scared of him, scared that I can’t do it, scared I’ll cave if he gets sober and then he’ll go right back to it.

I did leave him once before, but didn’t make it a week, and things weren’t nearly this bad then. My parents and sister will support me emotionally if I leave, and have offered to help financially where they can, but I do not feel right asking them for money. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how this happened to me.

Please help me, Aunt Becky.

———————

Abuse refers to harmful or injurious behavior to another human being

Verbal Abuse: constant name-calling, labeling, ridicule, making fun of, mocking, spoken threats, and regular bullying. Verbal abuse can occur at schools, in homes or at the workplace. It can be very hard to prove verbal abuse as it’s often hard to obtain evidence, even though it’s incredibly damaging. The victim can be told that it’s “all in their head” or that it’s “a joke” and made to feel that the constant attacks are really their own fault or their own problem. This can lead to long-term psychiatric damage to their self-esteem and self-image.

(information taken from Abuse Resource Page of Band Back Together)

Domestic Violence Resource Page on Band Back Together

Prankster, I’m so sorry that you’re in this position. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY deserves to be abused, and your husband is abusing you. You do not deserve this. If any ONE of my Pranksters reading this is in the same position as the writer, know that I am addressing you, as well:

YOU DO NOT DESERVE THIS.

The subject line was “is this what marriage is supposed to be?” and my answer is, of course, FUCK NO. Marriage is about love and more importantly, about partnership. Marriage isn’t always good or always easy, but it is never, ever supposed to be like this. Ever.

Prankster, please get out of there. Please go. You mentioned that you have family that will support you and that’s full of the awesome. Here is a list of state-by-state resources available to victims of domestic abuse. At the bottom of this post, I’ve listed other abuse hotlines.

I was in an abusive relationship, too. There are a lot of us out there who have been there before and have gotten out. We’re on the other side and we want you to join us. We’re here for you here, and more importantly, I think that Band Back Together has an awesome network of support, too. You’re not alone. We’ve all got your back and you can do this.

Pranksters, help me out here. Help me help this Prankster.

Much love to you, Prankster. Please be safe.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline:

1.800.799.SAFE (7233)

National Child Abuse Hotline

1-800-4-A-CHILD

National Sexual Assault Hotline

1.800.656.HOPE

Elder Abuse (state hotlines vary):

Visit National Center on Elder Abuse for a directory of state hotlines

Because now that I am officially a fugitive-at-large scheduled for surgery that I wasn’t quite expecting to happen so, well, SUDDENLY, I am now carefully spraying down every surface of my house with bleach. And Lysol. And then more bleach. Why? Because GERMS EXIST WHERE CROTCH PARASITES LIVE.

Also, one of the major risks for a surgery like mine is infection, so there you have it. I am trying to minimize my risks WHILE staying sane. Also Also: if anyone knows anyone local who can paint some walls, like, in the next three days, CALL ME.

Because obviously.

(and yes, I was serious about the come sit on my couch, yo, offer)

I invited my home slice Mompetition to guest post for me. So I could go buy more bleach. And maybe stare adoringly at my John C. Mayer pictures. A lot.

But I’m over at Mushroom Printing and I’ll prolly be over at Band Back Together because I am obsessive. They’re group blogs, yo, so you can post there too. FANCY.

——————–

Aunt Becky asked me to do a guest post. Besides a moment filled with excitement and glee, I felt an overwhelming sense of, well shit, what do I write about?  Typically, I like to write about amusing topics.  Perhaps one of my tales from days cooped up in a laboratory, pounding out the cure for cancer.  Or I could tell you the tale of worms who frolicked in my toilet.  That’s right, worms.  Someone (not a member of my family), had gone poopoo in a guest toilet we never used, and failed to flush.  A week went by and I noticed a horrid smell.  I opened the lid and to my horror I found black water and worms swan diving into the sewage.  Yes.  It happened.

But instead, words that Aunt Becky told me (ok, not me specifically, so I guess I should use the word “US”) resound in my ears.  It is important to be honest with your audience.  People yearn for truth and hence, will be drawn into the prose.  Let’s talk about feminism aka, wearing your vagina on the outside, as well as the inside.

Growing up I was constantly told I could be anything:  a veterinarian, an artist, a brain surgeon, anything my little pig-tailed heart desired.  I did my time in high school and then went to college.  I majored in genetics.  It seemed that was not enough, I felt the canines of Virginia Woolf, piercing through my brain.

Next, I continued on to graduate school and completed my studies in cancer biology earning a PhD.  During this time I struggled with infertility and triumphantly gave birth to boy/girl twins after my graduation.  At the same hospital, I had found a fantastic job that I loved.  I utilized my writing talents, people incorporating skills and even had a boss that understood my quirky sense of humor.  Then, I gave birth to my babies and 12 weeks after their birth returned to work.  I smiled each day and enjoyed the coffee break complete with alone time at my desk.  But inside, I was dying.

No one told me it was OK to “just be a mother”.  Staying at home with your children was something our grandmothers and great-grandmothers did.  Stanton and Anthony didn’t work their bustles off so that I would merely sit at home and be a wife and mother.  Oh no no.  I owed it to our sub species to work work work and be proud of my success.  I would stare at my business card mounted on my desk and daydream about what my babies were doing at daycare.  Were they sticking to their routine?  Did the ladies there remember to not do tummy time with my daughter?  Is my son smiling at that other woman who is holding him close.

I worked and worked, some days I would only see them for 30 minutes total.  I was not happy.  Then, it happened.  I got the best news I ever. We had to move.  My husband’s job relocated us halfway across the country to the sweltering craplands of Miami.  I was in heaven.  Now, I had an excuse to quit my job and not return to work.  “OH! getting a job in Miami?  We may only be there for a few years, it’s not worth it for me to try and find a job.”

We moved.  I stayed home.  I was happy.  Sure there were a few days (weeks!) that sucked here and there.  Nap refusals, food thrown in my face, children rolling around on the floor trying to bite one another, all that good infant-toddler transition stuff, but it was the happiest I had ever been.

Then, we had to move back.  We all came back to Texas and suddenly it wasn’t an anomaly that I was unemployed.  Back in our home state, back with connections, back where people spoke English, I had no excuse not to go find a job.  I chose not to and decided to be, a STAY AT HOME MOM (dun dun duuunnn).

I hate it when strangers ask what I do.  I still feel the need to justify or say things like “well just until they start school”.  Don’t worry, I will work again, please don’t think less of me.  I also hate forms.  “Employer?”  “Work Phone?”  My answers are always bitchy or full of sub-text.  I wonder if anyone catches it.

I find it interesting that as little girls, we are given baby dolls to play with.  Yet, when I was growing up I was never told it was “OK” to be a mommy.  Playing mommy was for fun, but you better finish college.  Where was all my inner struggle coming from?  GUILT.  Guilt that I was letting all the women who had come before me down.  I had the brains and drive to be a successful working woman, I owed it to them to climb that ladder.  And then, one day, it hit me.  Feminism is not about being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company or being the chief of medicine, it was about having a CHOICE.  I can be a woman in a suit or a woman in a rocking chair.   It’s OK to be a stay at home mom to support my husband in his career and be with my children 24 hours a day.  If that is what I chose to do, so be it.

Many don’t get it.  A woman I once worked has called it a “shame”, and “such a waste of talent”.  Others comment on why I bothered to get my doctorate if I’m JUST going to be a mom.  My friends without children constantly ask me when I’m “going back to work”.  Every time someone says that it makes me want to hurt them, possibly slowly and painfully with voodoo needles.  But instead, I normally follow it up with the passive-aggressive “what do you mean?”  Whether they meant it or not, I thank my fore-mothers for standing up for my rights to be employed by my husband and children.

My only hope, for anyone out there who struggles with the insecurities of this job, is that you are comforted in knowing you are ALLOWED to be whatever you want to be, even if it is a bugger rag for your babies.