tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141729332024-03-07T19:39:48.616-08:00Welfare MommyWelfare Mom to Welfare WorkerBrokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.comBlogger353125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-69888259101162906862013-11-24T16:49:00.001-08:002013-11-24T16:49:15.523-08:00The Words I Couldn't SayThe words I couldn't say are mostly all of them. I long to open my mouth and have them flow freely like they used to; begin typing and the words pour from my fingers. How high do I have to be to get it to come back??Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-27156897069526356602011-11-05T20:41:00.000-07:002011-11-05T20:55:50.061-07:00Dear Old Lady Client Who I Thought Was SweetDear Old Lady Client Who I Thought Was Sweet,<br /><br />I am sorry I took the time to be polite and use my "customer service skills". You were okay with being over income for food stamps. I thought that I would help get the verifications for the other Worker who had your Welfcare application. It was the "customer-service friendly" thing to do!<br />By that time the Front Desk had already taken your name and fingerprints (standard policy and all). It would have been done regardless of which Worker interviewed you for the Public Assistance Benefits.<br /><br />I thought you were funny and you had some great stories to tell; you are 77 years old! You live in your car in the WalMart parking lot fercryingoutloud, I almost wanted to ask you home for dinner! It broke my heart that you were technically "over income" for food stamps. You knew it, you seemed okay with it, you asked me if one day I could help you use the computer to look for "unclaimed property". You shook my hand and thanked me, told me all of your questions had been answered and told me I was a "very sweet woman who obviously cared about people."<br /><br />Then you repeatedly called my Supervisor to complain that your Civil Rights were being violated. No reason why, just that they had been severely violated. And when she didn't call you back in an hour (because she wasn't there that day) you called the Program Supervisor and complained that your Civil Rights and been violated. And she got her Boss involved. Only after a whole bunch of shit rolled downhill (guess who was on the bottom?) did you bother mentioning that your civil right that was violated??? That was when they fingerprinted you and then you <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> get food stamps, and how the application had the <span style="font-style: italic;">gall</span> to ask you if you had used any previous names.<br /><br />...<br /><br />What?... Really?<br /><br /><br />Hiding something? My advice is don't apply for government assistance and then call the bigwigs at the State.<br /><br />No love,<br />Brokemom the Welfare WorkerBrokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-74106844997106870852011-10-09T22:17:00.000-07:002011-10-09T22:25:48.567-07:00My Client Said To MeTo get welfare one must provide proof of immunizations for children or sign a waiver. Because I personally associate with friends/families that do <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> immunize their children, it is natural for me to be aware enough of personal choice to ask the young single mother client if she immunizes her children, rather then just assume. I would want someone to ask <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>.<br />Anyhow, I ask her.<br /><br /> She looks up at me with a confused look on her face and says, "Yeah, I'm not, like, organic or anything."Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-20907512375297070232011-10-09T22:15:00.000-07:002011-10-09T22:16:32.061-07:00I Think They're ListeningSometimes at night I go outside and tell my troubles to the trees.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-51575098332253173312011-08-10T22:39:00.000-07:002011-08-10T22:44:14.847-07:00Things I Can't Say At WorkDear Client,
<br />
<br />I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> understand your urgent need for Cash Assistance. After all, babies cost money! Right? I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> that Johny's in the slammer and your food stamps just aren't cutting it and the electric bill! Whoohoo! I totally get that. What I don't understand is <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> you keep having more children!? If you can't afford the ones you <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> why in heaven's name are ya having more??
<br />
<br />Fer fuck's sake lady.
<br />
<br />Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-46649826905923151102011-04-10T22:30:00.001-07:002011-04-10T22:49:27.169-07:00It's A Really Really Long Time<div align="left">I've been employed at the Welfare Office for five years. I feel like a completely different person than the woman who started this blog. I was funnier. (<em>No really, I was</em>).</div><br /><div align="left">I was thinner and accessorized better. I was more naive and self-centered. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Different isn't always a bad thing. I still see the funny in things, it's just more subtle...or maybe I've learned to keep my mouth a little more shut.</div><br /><div align="left">I'm fatter than I was, but I actually <em>like</em> myself. I have no problem with my weight; it's my health I'd like to improve.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I have three of the world's best kids and a Husband who has faithfully attended Anger Management classes this past year of our separation in order to make it work. And I'm thinking of letting him come back, because I am still so completely and totally in love with him that it makes sense.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I have learned that I have a strength inside of me that I didn't know existed and it won't fail me. I've learned that many many things can be overcome by the power of Positive Thinking (<em>not kidding. I weaned myself off of Prozac three months ago and am still fine)</em>.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I am good at my job (<em>97%-100% accurate actually) </em>and I still enjoy my job very much. I like helping people that need it. I love finding that gray area between the regulations and REAL LIFE (<em>without breaking any rules) </em>and straddling that line in order for REAL PEOPLE to get the help that, in my opinion, should be available to everyone who needs it. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Five years has gone by so very slooooooooowly. Thank goodness I cannot remember it all. But the things I <em>can</em> remember helped make me this awesome girl I am now. And part of that is never forgetting where I came from...Welfare Mommy. Welfare Worker.</div>Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-82864276076812061812011-02-27T20:45:00.000-08:002011-02-27T20:48:44.396-08:00Wipe Your FeetI sit and think about love sometimes. What love is. How to define love. How love feels.<br /><br />I sit and I think and I think and I think.<br /><br />What if it's not "love"? What if I'm just a doormat?<br />A fine line, yes; who defines the line?Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-54379672620800282742011-01-09T21:51:00.000-08:002011-01-09T22:18:56.974-08:00All By MyselfI have figured out that the moments I like best are the ones where I am alone; where it is just me. I can sit and think. Think think think about anything and everything. There are no phones to answer, no children to tend to. I got an hour and a half of Me Time just this evening.<br /><br />I can think about work. I think about my drawers of cases, not just <em>cases</em>, but <em>people</em> with different lives and circumstances and problems that I enjoy helping. I love my job. I just got a raise!<br /><br />I can think about my personal life, my emotional well-being. My wardrobe. I think about how I'm going to begin an MS treatment called Avonex. I will have to give myself a fricking shot every week. Yuck. But my eyesight is getting worse and my days of ignoring it are gone. Can you believe it, there were actually days and days where I didn't think about my MS <em>at all</em>? And then something would remind me and I'd almost startle, to have put it from my mind for such a time! Perhaps that helped me process the disease to myself...I was sad, I was angry. I was irritated and then chose a forgetful denial. I remain sad. Irritated. But I can't just pretend it doesn't exist any longer. Dammit.<br /><br />I think about how I have given up fast food and sometimes all I want is a Jack In the Box breakfast sammich. MMMM. But I won't give in, nope.<br /><br />The feeling of rejuvenation, the relaxation after I get said time to myself is the perfect beginning to another week. Ugh, which is tomorrow.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-6303214316603743522011-01-09T21:48:00.000-08:002011-01-09T21:51:27.564-08:00Don't Ask Me Why I'm Sitting In My Car In The DarkThe radio just played commercials for a tattoo shop and then a marijuana shop. I think that's awesome. Just the freedom of speech and progressiveness of our generation and blah blah blah.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-90277904613351683312011-01-02T12:26:00.000-08:002011-01-02T12:49:18.870-08:00Just To ThinkIt's been eight months since I left Husband. He's sweet and charming still, mostly. Sometimes there are blinding moments of clarity when I'm near him, the flashes of "Oh THANK GOODNESS I left him because he's an asshole". I call these moments my Weekly Dose of Reality. He lives in his place across town, I live in mine. We co-parent effectively. We try to be "friends". We still have sex.<br /><br />I know, I know. What the fuck am I doing, you ask? Eh...I've never been a conventional girl. I also think that the rules don't apply to me. We absolutely cannot live together, we realize that. But there's nobody else we'd rather be with than each other.<br /><br />A case of the grass is still green over here and there aren't any other pastures? Perhaps. But as much as I'd like to call it 'just fucking', he and I both know that it's not. We kiss and make love/have mindblowing sex and cuddle, and then I leave for my own house. <br /><br />It's working for us. It's working better now then it has for the last five years. I get my own space, don't have to pay his bills or listen to his bullshit, and get all the orgasms I want. Imagine that.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-70987046988752273312010-12-05T18:27:00.000-08:002010-12-05T18:30:48.039-08:00The Next PartAlright, so irritated as I was (am) with these lesions, the next step was a spinal tap. Lumbar puncture. Giant needle going into my body while I am curled in a fetal position as my India-born Nuerologist is behind me (he's the guy with the needle) and it was NOT a fun experience, but it wasn't as bad as I had heard about. The first needle was the anesthesia and that poke hurt like a bitch. And the second needle? Well, I could tell it was larger, and the feeling of just a Wrongness, this pressure in the middle of my body was just...ick. It didn't hurt, it just felt waaaay odd. <br /><br />And when I first got there and had to change into a hospital gown I didn't realize there was a fricking camera in a black bubble on the ceiling and somebody got a free show, but I've dealt with that.<br /><br />I waited weeks for the results of that test. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I moved my Monday appointment to the Friday before. Long story short (and it was short because my Dr India doesn't really like to chat. He mutters and I catch a few words and ask him to repeat it. I continue this way until I have gleaned all the information I can from him) I have fricking Multiple Sclerosis. Blast it. <br /><br />The next week I went to the hospital every evening for five days for an IV drip of a super-steroid called Solu Medrol. Dr. India said it would help reduce the inflammation on my optic nerve and perhaps my vision would improve. So I said Why The Fuck Not? (I didn't really say that.) I educated myself on the process beforehand. I read the studies and side-effects and benefits and disclaimers and balogna and decided to do it. My vision is that bad. So I went and I didn't have to get undressed, which was awesome. I got t o sit in an armchair and watch a tv with real channels(!) as a nurse jabbed another big fricking needle in my arm to put poison in me. It hurt and it tasted HORRIBLE ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE the nastiness of the nasty. It wasn't a taste, more like a ...smell-taste. It's hard to describe. I could smell-taste the saline they cleared my vein with first too, but it was tolerable. The SoluMedrol tastes like dirty old copper pennies in the back of your throat. Oh lord it was HORRIBLE. Sorry, I'm remembering how HORRIBLE it was.Yech! Anyhow, I had a pain in my arm and the drip had to be slowed, which meant it then took forever but that was all right because I got to watch the new Hoarders which is always good. <br /><br />I got to leave this thing in my arm (the needle and some tubing) so they didn't have to repoke me. It was bandaged up quite nicely. I learned after the first night to put some cotton or gauze under the tubing so my skin wasn't hurting pushed against it all night. This was hard for me to deal with. It's not that I hate needles. I give blood on a regular basis. It's just the whole...thing. I don't understand it. I hate IVs. I begged my OB/GYN with my last pregnancy to please don't let them put an IV in me pleeease but got to have one anyways dammit and all I did was bug the nurses until they let me take it out. I didn't want a needle to come home with me! I suffered through this for five days. The horrible taste? It wasn't AS bad as the very first time, but it was still gross. And everything afterwards tastes okay in your mouth, but as soon as it hits the back of your throat ICK. I learned to eat before I started the treatment.<br /><br />Next time we're going to talk about the side effects from the SoluMedrol. They were superfuckedup and I just got over them 9/10. 9/26 was the first day I felt "normal" since going through this treatment.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-85367282714213162982010-12-05T18:12:00.000-08:002010-12-05T18:25:59.641-08:00Thought You Should KnowIn May I had a sinus infection. I get them all the time. I've learned to deal with them naturally, meaning no meds. I'm not a person who likes to take pills and medicines. I'd much rather not take anything, but I'm certainly not opposed to in ibuprofin for a headache and some Tums for heartburn, little stuff. I absolutely hate to take antibiotics. I have developed a love/hate relationship with a Neti Pot to deal with the sinus infections. It's awkward but it works. This is where it all started. <br /><br />I had just finished using the pot and was looking in the mirror. There was a smudge in my line of vision. I walked out of the bathroom into the hall and the smudge in my right eye was still there. Everywhere I looked with my eye was obscured. I took of my glasses and cleaned them, put em back on...smudge! <br /><br />It just got worse over the next few weeks. The smudge was sometimes darker, colors were different...like one eyeball was shaded. A television screen a shade too dark. Offputting, yes. Irritating, yes. It was Summer and I live where it gets HOT. Northern California. Summers can get up to 115 degrees, sometimes even more. It was hot outside and for some reason every time I went outside in the heat I got SO FRICKIN TIRED that I could barely function. It was almost like I was drugged I was so tired. But guess what? As soon as I cooled down, I was fine. Normal me. There was also the embarassing problem with going to the bathroom. All of a sudden, if I had to pee then godammit go go go gotta go right now hold moly kinda pee it was. I'll admit it, Internet. I peed myself one time. <br /><br /> I went to my Eye Doctor. She sent me to a Better Eye Doctor. Better ED was very pleasant, took the time and effort and tests into helping to figure out why my vision was different. He told me that everything was fine in my eye, which basically meant it was behind my eye that was the potential problem. And here it is, what changed at that moment in my life. It's as if now the globe just sort of...tilted a little on its axis...but of course, it was nothing. Sitting in Better ED's office, he mentions that I should go have an MRI. I really hate the idea of big metal clicky-clacky things radiating my brain for pictures, so I told him I would think about it. He told me that I was the right age and sex (female in her 30s) and we lived in the right place and that I might have Multiple Sclerosis. <br /><br />I went to my GP for a physical and for bloodwork to rule out anything abnormal. Turns out I had a severe Vitamin D deficiency and everything else was fine. I gave up drinking coffee, switching to herbal tea. I gave up artificial sweetners and alcohol. I waited and waited for my vision to get better, to feel better. It didn't. It seemed like my vision just kept getting worse, but really, it wasn't getting better. Not worse. But not better.<br /><br />So I went and had an MRI done. It was not scary, the nurses covered up my toes so I wasn't cold, blah blah blah. No big deal. I tried not to think about what was being directed towards my wonderful brain tissue. It wasn't a bad experience but I would rather not have to do it again. Eventually the results were given as my wonderous brain has lesions on it. Lesions! Even the word sounds nasty. Diseased. Not happy. Fucking lesions on my brain.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-24627418859841376482010-10-10T23:01:00.000-07:002010-10-10T23:06:56.619-07:00Somebody's Dead MeatWHAT the frick. I spent almost 15 minutes in Costco today debating over paying $2.35 p/lb on a delicious ham. It was a $20 ham. I thought <em>long and hard</em> about that purchase. Mmmm. I was going to open it up and cook it Tuesday, its honey-glaze hot and tasty, and maybe a baked potato. So I buy this ham. I carefully drive it home and put it in the 'fridge. THEN my father comes over and (while i was outside),he opens it and makes himself a GODAMN HAM SANDWICH!.!!!<br /><br />Oooh, I am SO irritated.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-19089267485147856502010-09-20T22:35:00.000-07:002010-09-20T22:41:03.793-07:00That Which Is MineI have held onto my self-respect, my attitude, my children and family, my <em>sanity</em>, my job, and many other things. I'm so proud of myself.<br />I reside in my house that doesn't move when I walk (<em>ok creaky subflooring</em>) with windows that I don't have to wipe down condensation from in the winter. I could go on, but basically, it's a firm foundation and <em>not</em> a fifth-wheel trailer. Thank goodness. This last year was difficult. Do I seem a fifth-wheel livin' kinda gal? Hm? You're correct, I am not. I gave it a damm good try though. Damn good. I can't wait to see what the next few months bring. I can't remember when I last felt that way about life.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-31546140036565673572010-05-30T10:43:00.000-07:002010-05-30T10:51:20.571-07:00The Crazy Man In The CornerSometimes holding a conversation with Husband is exhausting. Confusing. Irritating.<br />Speaking of Husband, what do I call him? We're not together (<em>yay</em>) and we're not going to be together (<em>yay</em>) and calling him Husband implies that he is still in that role. Hmmm....I'll think of something (<em>other than Asshole or Dirtbag, that is). </em><br /><br />What I have come to realize is that when talking with him, I need to pretend (<em>ha!</em>) that he is someone with a mental illness. Undiagnosed. If I went to hang out at Mental Health for some function, I would not assume that the conversation I hold with a patient is going to be understood and <em>conveyed in a manner that sane people do</em>. Not. At. All.<br /><br />So I alternate between treating him like a child and treating him as "special". Because otherwise I will drive <em>myself</em> bonkers in trying to have a <em>normal conversation </em>with someone who is incapable of doing so.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-232593060317796042010-05-24T20:18:00.000-07:002010-05-24T20:35:58.880-07:00We're Having *What* For Dinner?!J2 just turned 9. She is a bright, charming, mostly-happy child who also happens to have an <em>adorable</em> habit of mis-speaking. While serving me "dinner" (plastic food yum) she also went through her spiel of what was on the menu.<br /><br />"We have hot dogs, eggs, peppers, bacon, waffles, crustaceans, tomato and hmm..."<br /><br />At this point I am busting with laughter. The crustaceans? It was a CROISSANT!Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-58485820829173967972010-05-07T22:39:00.000-07:002010-05-07T22:52:55.043-07:00The Best Part<span style="font-family:times new roman;">I still have to see him. We are polite, he is friendly. I am...more distanced, I suppose. Cooler. Easily annoyed with him. He lives in the mini-house, I in a teeny spare room in a real house. Messy seems to be adapting to different nights with either Mom or Dad, but never Both.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Husband was initiating a conversation with me, which means he tells me what I "<em>need</em>" to do while feigning concern for "<em>our</em>" well-being. I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the tightening and tension because I am not comfortable with the subject he wants to discuss. I tell him that I will think it over and we can discuss it tomorrow. I was relaxed, or at least, I <em>had </em>been until he started badgering me to <em>talk about it now blah blah</em>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Are you ready for the best part??? Ready?</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I walked away. I told him "Goodnight" and I walked away. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><strong>It felt good, it felt cleansing, it felt powerful.</strong></span>Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-71486214497780027162010-05-04T23:38:00.000-07:002010-05-05T00:02:20.982-07:00I Can See Clearly Now, the Bullshit Is GoneOk, the bullshit is still there, but I can distance myself from the <i>love </i>that I felt/<i>feel?</i> for this man enough to hear what he's <i>not</i> saying. It was payday today, which means bills need to be paid and shopping trips <i>must</i> be made. So we agreed to be polite and non-confrontational while attending to mundane matters like <i>laundry soap</i> and <i>toilet paper</i>. Together. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I listen to him blubber on about how he loves me and will never find another and blabber blah (standard stuff). He talks about how maybe he shouldn't have been so uptight about the house being clean and he should have been easier on the girls (who are not here right now). How he will go to counseling. <div><br /></div><div>He isn't pushy. Not demanding. He is charming and funny. He tears up every now and then, but not in an attention-getting way. </div><div><br /></div><div>I glance at him while he's speaking, and imagine me in my own place. I can get up in the morning and turn on the tv. Blow-dry my hair. I can have friends. I can sleep by myself and not wake up when he rolls over, scared that he's going to wake up and bitch about <i>theblanketsthebabythemessmystinkyfart </i>and eleventymillion other things he complained about. </div><div><br /></div><div>He talks about how he wants to "try", no, not try but "really try", and I think about the counseling session and the cycle of violence and how I really miss <i>myself</i> and how it's been three mornings in a row now where I didn't want to drive my car off of a steep highway curve with my eyes closed.</div><div><br /></div><div>He looks at me, pleading. I smile, and tell him, again, that I will never share a roof with him. And then I change the subject. Messy and I gather our overnight-away-stuff, and we leave. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-56670409931280582032010-05-01T17:39:00.001-07:002010-05-01T17:47:54.387-07:00I told him I didn't want to live with him anymore. He did not get <em>grrrr</em>, just...sad. Tried to engage me in conversation about the "Us" and "We" and "Trying" and "pms". Yes, <em>that time of the month</em>. To guilt, to manipulate. So to bolster my decision to leave him, I am posting this which I wrote a few months ago. I couldn't do it earlier. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to do it now. It hurts my heart to read it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>DECEMBER 13, 2009: MEAN PEOPLE AND ALCOHOL DON'T MIX<br /></strong><br />A few months ago, after a particularly bad episode where my husband was drinking and then got physical with me, we made the vow that we wouldn't drink alcohol anymore. My husband told me that he recognized that when he drinks he feels "meaner and get angrier faster". I am not a big drinker, preferring my rooms to stay still and not spin, so this was no big deal to not drink. I was very happy that my husband realized that his drinking was a problem. We decided that we could have alcohol on "special occasions", namely holidays.<br /><br />We went to a party last night, a holiday-family-friendly-gingerbread-decorating-party. Alcohol was served to the adults. We never go out, so we both agreed that this was a "special occasion". After a few drinks, my husband decided he needed more alcohol. (This was after 7 Fat Tire beers and two inches of whiskey.) I felt a little warning tug in my belly, but realized the frame of mind he was in; nothing was going to dissuade him. He went to the store, came back with a small bottle of Jack, and proceeded to drink almost the entire bottle. (I had some, maybe a shot or two.)<br /><br />Eleven o'clock at night, the babies are getting tired and he is losing at poker. The subtle comments start, little references that only I would understand. He asked Messy to sit in his lap, then when Messy starts to whine, passes him to me and remarks "five days a week, I'm done". (Referring to his SAHD status). Husband's jokes are not very funny anymore, and everyone can tell that he is trying too hard.<br /><br />I am sitting at the poker table. The following story was related to me by the children in the other room....<br />He walks into the bedroom where the children are playing, and tells Big J that she is driving home (joking). Big J replies that he doesn't have a car or a license. (Kinda' true-my car, and his license is currently suspended.) He freaks out on her, calls her "an ass" three times (let's keep in mind she's 12) and he then proceeds to scoop up Messy and slams out to the car, yelling at me that he is leaving me because my daughter is a "pole-dancing slut" and she's a "little cunt".<br />Seriously? SHE"S TWELVE YEARS OLD!! He then tells me that she told him to fuck off.<br /><br />I raised a good girl. I know that she is not disrespectful. I know that she would never ever EVER say "fuck" to an adult. I asked her what happened, and her story was the same as everyone else in the room.<br /><br />I follow my husband out to the car to talk to him, and he drives away. He watches me trying to get into the car and he drives away. I yell to him that if he continues, I will call 911 and report the car as stolen. He stops, gets out, and tells me that my daughter is disrespectful and says more unflattering things about her. He asks me if I believe him. I tell him no.<br /><br />I don't believe him. He tells me that I am letting my daughter ruin our relationship, walks to the car, calls me a "fucking slut" and leaves.<br /><br />Why would a grown man expect me to choose him over my child? Perhaps he doesn't understand the love a parent has for their child. Perhaps he honestly thought I would agree with him? I am so very tired of this...Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-25170791931689609982010-05-01T10:49:00.000-07:002010-05-01T10:52:42.774-07:00DoneI am writing it down. I am going to leave. I am so scared. I am so scared I won't do it.<br /><br />But I will. I am.<br /><br />Does anybody read this? Do you pray to whatever god/ess you believe in? Think of me then. Pray that I find the courage and the strength to do what needs to be done. Please. I think I'm going to need all the help I can get.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-19987170362862789672010-04-25T10:20:00.000-07:002010-04-25T10:29:35.453-07:00Life Lessons From a 13 Year OldMy daughter was watching 'Finding Nemo' with her little brother yesterday. For the elevently-millionth time. When it was over, she joined me at the table and became chatty.<br /><br /><em>"Wow, Mom. It's too bad what Coral did to Marlin, huh?"</em><br /><em></em><br />I replied, "What, getting eaten by a large fish while trying to save her children? Yeah, what a bitch." (I can say "bitch" to my daughter because of her age. With Middle I would have censored to "slut". No, just kidding!)<br /><br /><em>"Mom, how can you say that? It's obvious that the large fish was Coral's lover. She told him she was trying to end things with Marlin, but when he saw the large home that she and Marlin had just bought he went crazy. Coral took her eggs and went with her lover!"</em><br /><em></em><br />....thinking....how the hell do I respond to that?....<br /><br />"Oh!" I say. "What about the Nemo egg that gets left behind?! Hmm? What about that?"<br /><br /><em>"Mom, she forgot that one. She didn't see it and they had to leave in a hurry. Sheesh!"</em><br /><em></em><br />I think I need to start taking more of an interest in what she's reading.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-47712880006221773912010-03-28T22:19:00.000-07:002010-03-28T22:48:34.433-07:00The Saga ContinuesEvery time I think of the words that I need to write, I clam up. I lose them completely. It has been that way for a long time now, months even. So I will sit here and type whatever comes from my brain until I <em>get it</em> once again; until I can put it down and out there and be better for having it <em>out</em> and not in my head.<br /><br />Another Sunday morning. Yesterday was Another Saturday morning. Same place. Same people. Same grumpy man yelling about how he never gets any sleep (<em>toddler time</em>) and how he hates me and wants to leave and disappear with his son (<em>who turns two soon!) </em>and how I'm lazy (<em>still working full-time with less benefits yup!) </em>and then today it was he would rather be with his ex-wife than me (<em>the evil woman who stole his children reported to me through email of his previous verbal-abuse!) </em>and other blah blah blah while telling me that I'm being a bitch and treating him like shit.<br /><br />I'll cut to the good stuff, when the kids were gone. I am leaving to go to the store (<em>I'm the only one who has a driver license so i do all the everything!) </em>and when I step down the stairs, I notice his shoes on the second step. The steps are the creepy <em>ones i thought as a child i would fall</em>! with no back to them? ...? Go on and tell me you wouldn't do the same! I kick his shoes backwards to the ground (<em>just to be a bitch go me!</em>) and then he kicks me in the ribs.<br /><br />What. The. Fuck. Seriously? Motherfucker just <em>kicked me????</em> So I slowly straighten up and walk to the car. I get in and lock the door. I had time to do this because <em>i kicked his shoes to the ground go me! </em>I call the men in blue later and file a report.<br /><br />Even though they let him out, I got to see him sit in the back of a squad car for a few minutes. That was pretty nice. The officer told me that my "<em>husband seemed shaken up a bit" </em>and then told me Husband reported that he "<em>accidently stepped on" </em>me.<em> </em>Husband had mentioned this to me earlier as well, after seeing me dial nine one and one.<br /><em></em><br /><em>What the Fuck EVEN MORE! </em>First the asshole has the audacity to kick <em>while my back was turned</em> but then he doesn't even have the balls to admit he did it on purpose! If I had any respect for the man left, it would be lowered by this.<br /><br />Whatever. I'm going to watch mindless tv so that I won't think about tomorrow, won't think about how my ribs hurt on one side, and i have to get up early and how my sweet baby boy is going to grow up learning that <em>this</em> is how you treat women and I'm not ok with that.Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-53793250322462325022009-12-05T09:48:00.001-08:002009-12-05T10:23:57.607-08:00What Comes After Happily Ever After?<div><br /></div><div>It was never mentioned in school or health class. My parents never mentioned it. The stories end with it, but....that's it. Happily Ever After. What comes next? That's not the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd found the one man I wanted to spend my life with, raise my children with, grow old with...but honestly, I can't stand him most of the time. When things are good, they are good. He smells nice, he's clean, he cooks dinner, he helps around the house. The sex is good.</div><div><br /></div><div>When things are bad though....they are bad. He has a temper-control problem and cannot handle his emotions when angry. He's never smacked me around, but that doesn't mean he's not abusive, because he can be. Emotionally abusive, verbally abusive...and yeah, on two occasions it has been physical. Each time afterwards he is sorry (of course) and we talk, and he resolves to "do better" and "be in control". When he's out of nicotine? Oh, better run, because the emotions coming from him are palpable...you can almost feel the anger from him.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's always a next time. I never thought I'd be "one of those women". I took a class and was certified as a Domestic Violence outreach educator fercryinoutloud! I was not supposed to be one of those women.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I guess I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every Saturday morning he wakes up grumpy. Every Saturday morning he wakes up yelling and screaming "fuck" into his pillow. Imagine a three-year-old with a severe potty-mouth throwing a tantrum. That is my husband. Why is he so grumpy, you ask? Because it is 8am (sometimes 7:30am) and he "doesn't get any sleep". I see your confusion, let me explain. Because we live in a teeny tiny space, when the Toddler-Monster wakes up, so does everyone. And my husband apparently thinks that toddlers sleep until....9am? 10am? I'm not sure, because when I ask him what time he thinks is a good time to awaken, I get yelled at.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning was the same. It was 8:30am. I am elated, because I <i>never</i> get to sleep past 7am. Never. 8:30am was blissful heaven angels singing time. Not for long. The yelling started. Then the bad words started. He mentions he would like to get some sleep. (Ten hours isn't enough apparently). I told him that I would like to have this discussion "later, when the children aren't around". He flips a lid and he starts asking me what we need to talk about. I repeat that we can talk about it later. I am calm. I am not snotty, I am not a bitch. I have my son in my lap, we are constructing a Lego castle. My husband freaks and takes our son into his arms, yelling at me that we don't need to talk later, we can talk <i>now </i>and <i>godammit what do we have to talk about that we can't talk about right this very second in front of the kids. </i>I ask him to walk away, because he is not in control. He is getting up in my face, asking why can't we talk <i>now. </i>I try to explain that this is what I wanted to avoid, arguing in front of the kids, but now we are arguing about arguing...in front of the kids. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can see my life without him. It is calm, no emotional upheavals and no nicotine addiction leading my emotions. There is blessed quiet. My daughter doesn't cry anymore over the arguing. My son doesn't hear his dad start yelling and squish over inch by inch until he is in my lap looking at me with wide eyes. The mornings are relaxing, coffee and some tv and some cleaning. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can see my lonely nights of sleeping alone. I can see getting someone else to take the time to fix a broken something. Meals are one me, and I see nights of Ramen and burned rice-a-roni and tacos (the only thing I can make that's edible). I can see 50/50 custody and split holidays and missing my son <i>like crazy</i> when it's not my turn to be with him. I see daycare and less money and more to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>Is marriage this difficult? I was never told that it takes work, that it's difficult, that sometimes you have to grit your teeth and smile when you don't feel like it. How do I know what is "normal" and what isn't? </div><div><br /></div><div>If this is my happily ever after, I want a refund.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-1826332806291075202009-09-06T15:41:00.000-07:002009-09-06T15:55:08.186-07:00My Husband SmellsIt's true, he does! Just not in a bad way. <br /><br />No one else can smell it. When I first met him, I smelled it. He showed me his room, and the entire place smelled. I thought it was cologne or air freshener.<br /><br />His clothes smelled of it, as did his pillow. It took me a few months to realize it was <em>him.</em> Not air freshener, not laundry soap, but <em>him</em>. It comes from him, from his pores...I stand next to him and just breath in because it smells like nothing I've ever smelled before. I stand in front of his side of the closet and smell his clothes. This smell smells GOOD. I mean, <em>GOOD</em>. Like, I want to bottle it up and sit there like a junkie and just <em>sniff it</em>.<br /><br />It doesn't smell like anything I can describe. There's not a scent I can compare it to. It's just a delicious yummy smell that smells so DAMN GOOD that it makes me want to rip my clothes off and maul him. I know it must be some pheremone thing or whatnot, because I am more sensitive to it when I'm ovulating. It affects me more then, but it smells good all the time.<br /><br />I lay awake in the morning and burrow my face close to him and just ....<em>ahhhhh</em>....breathe in. I will stand close to him in the kitchen and just breathe in. I will take a nap and lay my face down in his pillow and just <em>breathe in</em>.<br /><br />I've never smelled anyone else before like this. I've never reacted so strongly to SMELL BEFORE. Certainly not the smell of a person! Sometimes I think I must be off my rocker....and then I go smell some more. That's me over there, in the corner? I'm holding on to that t-shirt and sniffing it?<br /><br /><em>Ahhhhh</em>........Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14172933.post-74396553645599966172009-08-09T15:40:00.000-07:002009-08-09T15:51:54.499-07:00More For MeI am really enjoying Trailer Life. I didn't know how it would be, how I would become accustomed to living there...but I am having the time of my life. I should have listened to Husband and done it sooner. (<i>Don't tell him that though, I would never hear the end of it)</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Yes, it's small, but that makes it easier to clean. Yes, I don't have a dryer, but I found myself <i>enjoying</i> the laundry I was hanging to dry this morning. I was <i>humming</i>. It's great exercise, and I certainly seem thinner to my clothes, so something I am doing is working!</div><div><br /></div><div>I like that Husband and I work together on tasks, be it cooking dinner (<i>I'm just the helper) </i>or building the deck (<i>again, just a helper). </i>We are both making an effort to actively work on our marriage and not just shut down when things get tough. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are making an effort to save money, pay bills on time, and will eventually be able to pay some of the waaaaaaaay past-due child support he owes his other kids. His ex-wife would, rather than come to an agreement we can afford, get absolutely nothing at all, but that is a story for another time.</div><div><br /></div><div>My children will be better off with this life, my marriage is better, my <i>self </i>is better. I don't feel the need to question if I should start my anti-depressants again because I know I am ok. That's all I need....to be okay.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brokemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14506476089293496256noreply@blogger.com1