I never want to go back

There's only one thing I can tell you

I never want to go back

I don't want to make up for the loss

or get a do-over

I love where I'm at and all the hurt I've let go

I never want to go back

When I close my eyes I'm not lost

or wallowing in pain

I am tired inside

but for different reasons now

I am not blind by my emotions

I told you,

I never want to go back

...

Kicking black ashes around with each step

I had a spiritual experience at work the other day. In a place filled with darkness I experienced some much needed light. You can imagine how much this threw me off, yet I was left on the verge of tears and full of hope. Finally. A little bit of hope. Some warmth for a cold corpse. The dryness had begun to crack. Winter had nearly choked away any sign of life. Walking through an empty city kicking black ashes around with each step. There was little shine left to my gold Toms. With no ear to whisper in or color to see, just various shades of blur. Touch is a faded memory and mirrors have become unnecessary. Even the colorful mood board on my desk was failing at the job at which it was intended. I’d look at the faces of each memory and felt nothing. I hated it. That made me feel even worse. The darkness of this place was taking a much deeper effect now. It was getting harder and harder to deflect the iniquity away.

A few words from a prodigious source had soothed and even began to heal. I was so surprised I could barely walk back to my desk. Thankfulness wasn’t worthy enough of an expression. I wanted to reach out and grab those words and drown them in my pale arms. Projecting my joy in their direction was near impossible to control. I could feel myself sobbing and smiling and jumping all around. But still I stood there almost frozen. Rolling what just happened through my skull and even still resisting the urge to, dare I say hug this person? I knew immediately these words were not their own that they came from a greater place with more light than I could ever begin to unravel.

I walked back to my desk and the things I looked at began to focus a little clearer. I sat down at my desk and it lit up in the middle of the gray atmosphere. I felt a little warmer and the condensation left on my heart was making me happy. I was hovering above the dim on a planet of hope and even though the starts were still sparkling in the distance I knew I would be bracing one someday.

-Brandy

{a little something from inside}

Spoons; a mortal kombat-like family game

It started on NYE. There always seems to be something in the air during the holidays that brings families together and makes them feel they should play games. My family is not the type to do this year round but if your family is that's just great. I hope you've had some lasting memories sitting around the game of Life watching your siblings plastic vehicles fill up with tiny pink & blue baby pins while yours sits empty. It's disturbing how realistic this is all sounding isn't it? Well, I just wanted to say good for you and your adorable little family. A family who plays board games together is a family who sticks together, or something like that. In my family it goes more like a family who tells crass jokes, talks about their bowel movements, and calls each other names is the family is who actually sticks together. 

This year on NYE we decided to play games. We get the itch to do it during the holidays. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. I was having déjà vu about sleepovers when I was in grade school (maybe even jr high) of staying up late with a bunch of my girlfriends playing games with them and my family. What I couldn't stop thinking about was the card game Spoons and I was determined to make us play it that very night. I get my way most of the time because I speak up loudly and get in everyone's face until they agree. I started googling the rules of the game because I couldn't remember the specifics but soon enough it all came back to me. Before we knew it we were gathered around the kitchen table with a pile of spoons and two decks of cards. My SIL had the cards in her purse which was perfect. I forgot to ask her why in the world she was carrying them around with her but it didn't really matter at that moment as it was suiting me and my eagerness to get this shit going.

i swear to God I didn't cause that scratch on his nose

His Majesty (my nephew - if you haven't been following my stories) was still awake so my mom decided to sit this one out to watch him until he went to bed. That left my dad, brother, SIL, Tyrone and myself. I was as giddy as a vagrant at a hot dog stand to begin The Drawing of The Blood. This was something I definitely remember very fondly that happens during this game. The gist of the game is, you want to grab a spoon before they are all gone and if you don't you're out and in this case that means whimpering in the corner licking your wounds. It didn't take my SIL and Tyrone to become accustomed to my families’ aggression. I think they could smell the competition sweating from our brows. You grab a spoon no matter what. That means, unintentional scratching, bruising, kicking, biting and or launching one’s body over the table in order to rip the spoon out of an opponent’s hand (this is not an exaggeration). In order to minimize blood spill you should try to disrobe any jewelry or accessories that could cause damage. If you have  tender hands like Tyrone does then you'll need a box of Band-Aids near as well. And maybe a box of tissues. (hehehe). He's such a sore loser too. This is a game that I am able to beat him at and unfortunately there aren’t many others of which I can gloat. I'm not competitive in any way but this game brings it out of me. Tyrone is super competitive and he'll even rub it in his nephew and nieces faces when he beats them at things. He does not let up for no one so when I see him struggle with Spoons I can't help but rejoice aloud like a proper wife should.


We played late into the night/early in the morning and my mom even joined in after my dad wussed out and finally went to bed. My mom surprised us a bit with her psychotic manner. I don't know why this surprised us at all because we learned these traits from her but there was just something in her eyes when we were playing that made you take a step back. She does not focus quick enough when the cards are being handed to her and she begins to trail off and start asking random questions yet somehow she is able to get a mothertrucking spoon. My brother ended up winning this night. 

We played again this last weekend because, a game where it's perfectly acceptable to be loud and pull your opponent’s hair out is right up our alley. We don't need Christmas to remind us to play this game. I think it's going to become a family staple. My brother ended up winning again this night which could not piss me off more. You don't understand how my brother is if you've never met him which I don't say to be obvious but that he is so big and his hands are so large and strong there is no yanking a spoon out of his paw. He has sausage fingers which we've all (me, bro, mom) inherited from our grandma except that his are six times the size of anyone else's. They're not so much long as they are thick and wide (no disgusting innuendos here this is my brother we're talking about sickos) and they don't budge for anything. Also because he is pretty much numb to pain you could bite his hand to try and get him to let it go and it wouldn't do anything. He's sort of like the big dopey guy on Goonies, but smarter of course (I'm obligated to include this disclaimer) that isn’t fazed by much. We tried our hardest to beat him, and his wife almost did, but in the end we failed. One day we'll kick his ass. I even made him switch me chairs because I was convinced he was winning because he was sitting in the "right" spot which was the middle of the table perfectly proportionate to each spoon. Soon after that my time had expired. So annoying.


I bowed out with minor injuries. I may have shed blood but I didn’t need no stinking bandage.

I should have more to write about but suddenly my brain is drawing a blank. My mom even took notes for me during the first game after she had lost, of every comment that came out of our mouths, but I unfortunately lost the paper. She was all proud to dot it too especially after I told that “This shiz is soooo going up on the blog.” Now she’s going to be mad that I lost her well-kept notes (sorry Daisy!!). If I end up finding them, which could very well happened because it happens to me all of the time where I end up starting something without a certain piece of information or tool that I thought I needed and then later finding out that it was in my purse the entire time. (another family trait) In that case I will surely update this post to include them. 


I was thinking that if we keep this up which I very much hope we do that I might make some trophies. They could be really vulgar or even graphic like a mounted moose head with a spoon sticking out of its eye ball or just throw some blood on some little kid’s little league trophy that his mom, the OCD freak, made him throw out in a cleaning fit. I have lots of ideas for this. 

My 911 Memory

I wasn't directly affected by what happened ten years ago when those assholes (there really isn't a better word to call them) flew the planes in to the Twin Towers. But I remember exactly where I was and what went through my mind when it happened. Ten years later my memory hasn't faded much.

I was managing a restaurant that morning, helping our cooks prepare for the day before opening our doors. The usual morning routine. My mom called me that morning after the first plane had hit to tell me to turn on the news. I turned on the television just as the second plane hit. The station I was watching was freaking out because they were witnessing it as it was happening while trying to remain composed. It was surreal watching it hit. I was a bit confused because I thought for a moment it was a replay but quickly realized it wasn't. My mom and I were pretty emotional as we stayed on the phone together for awhile longer. While I don't remember our exact conversation I remember feeling horror. I just wanted to go home. I stood there staring at the television screen with the other two cooks. We were all in complete shock and utterly speechless. That day at work was so slow. We kept the news on all day instead of the usual ESPN. Every patron that came in was quiet and a bit pale-faced. It felt like I was at work for an eternity that day. I remember going home and hanging up a flag.

I now work for a company who was directly impacted by the terror that happened that day. Our NY office was located in the Twin Towers. We lost 97 employees that day. I have heard some bone chilling stories from a few of those that had survived that day. One person turned their car around mid-commute on their way to work that morning and decided to go back home because of a "feeling". Another was in their office as the first plane hit and decided to leave as they were being told everything was going to be okay. Both trusted their instincts.

Never forget

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Rooftop memories

For weeks my mom has been asking me if I’d climb on her roof and remove the broken bricks that were lying there from falling from the chimney. She asked me to do this because she knows I’m not afraid of heights and having helped my dad re-roof it years ago (junior high age) she knew I could do it with out a problem. Even thought the entire time she would be out there pissing her pants telling me to be careful. But every time we were visiting I would forget about it. Finally, Sunday, I decided to do it. It’s easy to access from the upstairs office window. I climbed out started shoving bricks and debris with out giving anyone below any notice really. We had all been sitting out in their front yard just in front of the porch. I heard some grumbling but went on my way.

The bricks were just laying the on lowest part of the roof that is right over the porch but I decided to climb up on the top by the chimney which is about the tallest part of the roof. I was fine but realized I did have a small fracture of fear that escaped me more than fifteen years ago. Its funny how things like that change the older you get (at least it does for me). I never once stood up on my feet. I stayed either on my knees or my behind. I remember running around on that thing back in the day like I was prancing around a wild flower field.

One summer I was grounded and it was during fireworks season. I had climbed up on top of the roof and was able to watch all of the fireworks shows that each town was putting on. I’m almost certain it was the fourth of July (it’s a bit foggy). The rebellious side of me found a way to enjoy the holiday even though I was grounded. On Sunday when I was up there I found where I carved out my name on one of the bricks in the chimney. I asked my dad (who was anxiously waiting for me by the office window) to hand me his phone so I could take a pictures of it. Now, this sparked a fire under the peanut gallery’s asses watching below. I heard a lot of mocking about how I need to take a photo so I could blog about it. I’m pretty sure most of the mocking came from my husband.

“I need to risk my life taking a photo of this so I can blog about it…this is when I was a teenager and I carved my name…” blah-blah-blah-blah

Jerks.

And now I write this with their judging voices in my head out of spite.

At least I’m not afraid of heights.

I was thinking about the fear I had as I was sweeping the leaves off with the broom and I didn’t like the way it felt. I wasn’t scared but I was extra cautious. It made me wonder why as adults we stop doing the so-called dangerous things we did as children. I could list a million reasons why but for me personally I didn’t really like that I had changed in that way. It left me longing for that carefree, fearless attitude I had years ago.

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Ozzy Osbourne - a music post about growing up

Before I get into my Ozzy story I want to talk about how my taste in music is starting to change as an adult. The older I get the more I prefer my rock to be louder and harder preferably with a bit of screaming here and there. I'm not talking about death metal (Do they even still have that? Did I just date myself by referring to it as Death Metal?). I don't like the constant screaming. I still need to hear some sort of enunciation and actual vocal range from a decent singer. I still hold true to my classic rock roots; I'll never get sick of it. Some days I find myself not only listening to our local alternative station but also our local Rock station that plays everything from Punk to Hair Bands to Butt Rock. I'm really feeling emo/screamo right now like mad crazy and even have been going back to grunge bands that I loved in the 90's.

 

With that being said...

 

Ozzy. What do you think about when you hear his name? Before MTV came around and destroyed his evil image you may have thought something not-so-nice like I did. Growing up Ozzy was one of those musicians that was banned in our house and being the obedient little girl that I was I stayed away. I have to give credit to an old childhood friend's sister who contributed to my fear of him. I had this friend, her name was Brittany Philips, and she had an older sister who was quite intimidating. I can't remember her name. She did drugs, drank, messed around with boys and cursed - often. A trait that I would later inherit. The culdisac they lived in that was next to the interstate wasn't the best neighborhood either. You sort of had to grow up tough or you would have been mocked. That was probably the extent of it though, just mocking. But the fear of being mocked when you're that young is the worst fear you could probably have.

 

She had these pictures of Ozzy and Black Sabbath (I'm sure Alice Cooper was in the mix as well) that she had torn out of magazines and such that covered almost every spot on the walls in her bedroom. Pictures of him with blood all over his face and the most recent rodent carcass (plastic, but didn't know this back then) hanging out of his mouth. Even his black eye liner scared the crap out of me. I think I would just stand in the middle of her room on the rare occasion that I had entered it and with my mouth pierced shut and white face. I know that I never spoke a word in front of her hardly ever.

 

Between her bedroom walls and the fear my mother instilled in me I was terrified of him to say the least.

 

I was one of the "good" kids in the neighborhood and was often mocked for being spoiled. You know because being spoiled meant having my mom keep my clothes clean, making sure I was well fed and my hair was nicely done before I went to school every day. They had NO IDEA what my life was like before I had moved to American Fork. The kids in The Village were mean and tough. The Village was this little neighborhood that was known for the supposedly bad people that lived there. Mostly just bad things that happened there. Looking back I think it was just because the bad things that were done weren't as well hidden as they were in the surrounding neighborhoods. I hung out with the kids from The Village because they were funny, outgoing, cursed and did things I would never dare to do. It also may have been because I didn't want to get my ass handed to me. Most days I could see their innocent sides and we would play Barbies till an older sibling came along and mocked us for it. By the time Junior High came around the mocking ruled our lives. Mine so much that I decided that I would NOT ride the bus that I was suppose to ride and instead was willing to walk a few extra blocks north to ride the bus with my friends Marissa and Destry (RIP). The other kids ended up being ruled by the mocking and their environment that it became too hard for most to escape.

 

To this day, I'm thankful for the fear that forced me to walk the extra distance to the other bus stop.

 

I listen to Ozzy and Black Sabbath now days and I like it. I enjoy it. I listen to the words of the songs and realize that it's not so bad or even evil for that matter. I understand the showmanship that goes into rock music as ridiculous as it is on the surface. I actually love the eye liner look on musicians and the black hair and all. I'm proud of myself as an adult that I can listen to rock music or any other kind and not feel guilty or let it manipulate me in a negative way. I love getting lost in lyrics and guitar riffs and the thumping of a double bass. I love finding a really good song and putting it on repeat until I'm so sick of it I could vomit but then find myself returning to it later on to find that I still love it. I love going to live shows and listening to the screaming of the crowd and feeling the sweaty band tee from the fat guy in front of me hit into my face. I love it ALL.

 

I can't wait to share this love with my children if that day ever comes. I want to play every classic rock album I have for them, jump up and down in our living room to some Punk band and teach them to fist bump just as my mom did when I was three years old. I can't wait for them to have their own experiences with music and let them find what they like on their own.

 

To Rock and Roll...

 

As he sat behind her at the light she caught his attention by singing to herself alone in her car. They were listening to the same song. He could tell because he had a clear shot of her beautiful pale face through the rear view window of her car. She took out a tube of red lipstick and didn't even miss a word of the song while she put it on her lips. He sped up around her to try to make even a little eye contact with her. But suddenly the car in front of him slowed down and she flew by him singing the song of their lives.

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Conversation with a stranger

Stranger: Hi (tries to make eye contact)

Me: (trying to avoid eye contact mumbles hello)

Stranger: You have kids right?

(Wuh? That's your first question?)

Me: (pauses) Yep, one.

Stranger: Boy or girl?

Me: Boy

Stranger: What's his name?

Me: Frederick

Stranger: That's a mature name.

Me: Thanks??

Stranger: What school does he go to?

Me: (wondering what else this ballsy jackass assumes about me)

(LONG PAUSE)

He's home schooled.
(technically he is)

Stranger: Does he have any friends?

Me: (Oh dear Gawd! I am going to really mess with this person) Yes he does in fact their names are Mr. Bo Jangles, Snickers, Duke, Patches and Rizzo. And he gets to play fetch with them on days when he doesn't get into the garbage.

Strangers: Those are odd names.

(I finally walked off laughing)

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Shampoo anyone?

Can some people not smell their own heads? I hate it when you walk by some dude at the grocery store and you can smell their greasy head. (homeless people excluded)


As a girl we're told not to wash our hair everyday which is fine and all but after a few days YOU KNOW WHEN YOU NEED TO WASH IT!


If I can smell your head and you're standing in the personal hygiene section of the grocery store and instead of picking up a bottle of shampoo you go for the toothpaste I am going to squirt that tube of toothpaste all over your head and send you out of the store with a kick in the pants.


Wash your hair!!

Random co-worker convo UPDATE

In case any one out there was as worried sick over the random co-worker conversation as I was - remember the 17 year old boy issue? Well, I just found out today he was talking about a fight he got into with his SON! Thank God!!! Now I'm going to have to call the police back and tell them "JUST KIDDING" about that report I filed with them.

 

I think they'll understand, right?

My work laugh

What does your fake laugh sound like?

 

Mine is terribly annoying. Have you ever caught yourself doing it and thought, "Man that sounds awful!"

 

I just did that.

 

I can't even come up with a good analogy to describe how bad mine is. Maybe picturing what a goat getting fondled would sound like.

 

It's like the Friends episode where Monica discovers Chandlers "work" laugh and develops her own annoying laugh. It's so funny. I can almost relate any life event to a Friends episode. Pathetic, I get it.

The Eighth Dwarf

Did you know that there were more than seven dwarfs in Snow White's posse? I did and am ready to reveal to all of you that I AM THE EIGHTH DWARF. Forget any other stories you ever heard for I tell you the painful truth. There are also more than eight dwarfs but I'll get into that at a later time.

 

Hi, my name is Loathsome. I am unlike the other dwarfs. For starters, my name doesn't rhyme in a cutsie way like the others do in the film which is a small reason why I was never mentioned in it. I am much darker and twisted than the others too. I am also not as short as those other stumpy idiots and I am also not a male or for that matter even a damn dwarf. I also refused to be Snow White's little bitch. I don't take orders well. I do, however, get along fairly with Grumpy. Him and I like to make fun of Happy together. He seems to be the favored one for some reason. We play tricks on Bashful because let's face it - it's just too easy. I am a constant reminder that there's more than seven emotions that us humans deal with and some are even scary.

 

I am the empty soul that sits in a cubicle in an emotionless, colorless office that can't seem to pull it's head out enough to see anything good going on around me.

 

Now even that is a little dark for Disney. I can admit that. So, why am I so bitchy you ask?

 

MY NAME IS LOATHSOME. Duh! Don't make me repeat myself.

 

 

Today has been an incredibly hard day to bear that started at about three in the afternoon yesterday. This is how I am dealing with it all right now. Just when I thought I couldn't loathe my co-workers any more than I already do they went ahead and proved me wrong. Let's just say it's going to be a rough little while in the Franklin residence.

 

In an attempt to leave this post on a positive note,

 

I am thankful for:

 

1. I still have a mother fucking job...?

2. I am breathing. Although, I'm pretty neutral about this one.

Conversations with random co-workers

Not-so-random co-worker: So, I just got done totally yelling at myself. I am such an idiot.

 

Me: What?

 

Not-so-random co-worker: [whispering] He's only 17, oh my God!

 

Me: Oh really? That's crazy! [thinking: What the holy hell is this dude taking about? Who is only17? Your lover? Your son? The dude working at McDonalds who served you your number four breakfast combo meal? The underage boy you met in that illegal chat room?]

 

Not-so-random co-worker: I mean I can't blame him he's only 17. He finally left and I just had to shake it off because what am I suppose to do, right?

 

Me: [at this point my face is completely glossed over and all I can think about is what conversation did I miss that lead to him coming up to my desk and start blurting this out like we're girlfriends and I am apparently suppose to know what he's talking about?]

 

Me: Right! Oh my gosh! I can't believe that. That is crazy! [BTW, that last sentence is my standard go-to line when I'm trying to act interested and pretend that I've been following along the whole time]

 

Okay, so let's talk about this: What? The? Hell? I admit there are times (most of the time) that I nod and smile along to most of the personal conversations that transpire at work and even though I might only be listening to 15% of what they're saying I still get some sort of idea of what the gist of it is about. But this one in particular has thrown me for a loop. I'm pretty sure I have never even had a personal conversation with this human being ever. I know nothing about them like if they are married, dating, how many children they have, or if they like to watch Glee on Tuesday nights in there pajamas while they sing along to every song into the microphone/remote…oh wait that's me.

 

You can imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind. For instance, am I going completely mad? Have I lost every bit of my memory? Or have I actually become that person? Do I know this human being outside of work? Are they famous and just expect me to know the details of their personal life from following TMZ? Do I need to report this person to the authorities for mingling with a minor?

 

I think I'll just keep nodding and smiling.

Ready to Rip out of my Skin

Don’t you ever feel like that?

I do.

But then I picture myself crawling out of myself and I get a little creeped out because my brain instantly goes to blood, guts and all.

BUT if I kept it clean, I could imagine a part of myself that is ready to be retired, peaking out of my forearm. Peaking out to say good bye; leaving it in the past.

Growing.

Maturing.

Moving on.

Live

Have Fun

Remember

Move on

-My life quote.

I shared my life quote with a friend recently. She liked the framed piece I did for my dinning area so I decided to do one for her. I like hers better than the one I did for myself. I think I’ll update mine in the future sometime.

It was easy to do, all you need is an old frame, paint and a printer.

Utah Pride

As much as I complain about living here I actually do love it.

Here is my Pro-Utah list

Dipping everything in ranch dressing – totally not ashamed of this

Fry sauce

The mountains or as we call them "mou-uhns". I like that we don't pronounce the letter "t" in most words. I embrace laziness in all aspects especially speech.

It doesn’t get too hot or too cold here compared to a lot of other places

Local music scene

Downtown SLC - there are so many cool local shops and places to see and the WIDE variety of people who walk around on a daily basis is interesting - and yes, interesting in the strange but intriging way.

Park City except during Sundance.

Lagoon - besides all of the juggalos that show up it's super fun. Urban Dictionary defines it as this - Ty's preferred definition.

Dear God,

I know I don't deserve it but can I have one any way?

Love,

Ungrateful

The Not Long Enough Commute

As I drove to work I could barely see through the salty tears streaming down my face and burning my eyes. I don’t know why this morning was any different; this has pretty much become a morning ritual. I drink my coffee, wipe the tears from my face and resist all temptation to drive into oncoming traffic. Why do I put myself through this if I hate it so much you ask? Faith and fear. But today I was overcome by your everyday depression…

{Insert cheesy anti-depressant medication commercial here – except in my dreams they are more like a strange Burton film than cheesy}

…and the faith and fear part were off playing hop-scotch together and drinking grape Kool-Aid while braiding each other’s hair. I’ve grown to accept the faith and fear part as reasons that keep me at my job. We are dear friends but sometimes those bitches don’t invite me to their sleepovers and I’m left with the fear of turning out like my mother – not the right type of fear. Growing up with a mother who dealt with manic depression I’ve always been fearful of catching it like it was a deadly zombie disease. Because of this I’ve adopted the “I’m fine” tag line whenever anyone asks me how I am but most importantly I’ve tricked myself into believing it when I say it. I say it over and over in my head when I feel the dark cloud approaching. I’ve come to understand this as paranoia and have learned to ride the wave till it passes. Let’s be honest, it is usually just hormones. Don’t even get me started on those demanding chicks.

Faith, that the future will bring better things and that we will be blessed for being faithful to what we believe in and faithful to achieving our goals.

Fear in not being able to pay the rent if I quit my job. Fear of the cold; I’d like to be able to turn the heater on and have it blow actual warm air. Fear of powdered milk; I remember having to drink it when I was little and distinctively remembering thinking to myself that I would never make my kids drink this. I could not have been more than 6 years old making such a life decision that has stuck with me to 31. I remember thinking I might as well be drinking water – what is the difference? Have you ever had powdered milk?

As I continue to drive I can feel the burning judgment from the eyes of the woman pushing the shopping cart down State Street filled with garbage bags filled with God only knows what. I can hear her saying what a fool I am to be driving to a job that makes me miserable just because I am scared of living on the streets. I hear her hissing laugh through the four teeth she has left in her mouth.

Now I’m left with the image of those four dirty teeth that have started gossiping about me I’m sure of it. I shake it off like a dog after a bath and take a deep breath as I exit the elevator wishing that our break room doubled as a huka bar. Oh how it would be to take a load off like that on my 10am morning break? It could not possibly make me anymore unproductive.

With all that said, I still hold on to the dream of being able to do what I enjoy full-time and will continue to work on my goals to achieve it. As slow of a journey it may be, I can’t wait for it to get here.

your entrance was so bright and gander

you charmed us with your lies so tender

you rode in on your faded mare

and played us with your friendly dares

we’re trapped by your presence unable to speak of your essence

for speaking of your desperate state

we forfeit rights to our cognate traits

we’re silenced by fear of losing close bonds

I see you marinate in your pleasure pond

I’d like to send your way my gratitude

I’ve since been forced to check my attitude

I’ve searched inside the man in the mirror

to discover a world less bitter and more clearer

the poison that drips from your right fang

has slowly killed what the blue bird once sang

But your toxic bile has become my antidote

It has not all been a stream of baleful smoke

So I rest here in my probationary holding cell

{to be continued}

She said it best; Bitter Sweet

Part I – Bitter

I’ve decided to write about this because I think that women should talk about it more than we do. It’s a horrible, extremely emotional, and very hard thing to have happen to you. So why would anyone want to discuss it? We don’t want to, I get it. But as someone who has been through this twice now I would rather have some meaningful or rather helpful conversations about it than get anymore pity looks. I’ve recently been going through a miscarriage. I was six weeks a long. I found out that I was pregnant on Monday, September 14 and miscarried a week later. The day after we had decided to finish telling the rest of our immediate family members and close friends the worst had begun to happen. I woke up Sunday morning around 1:30am with the worst cramps. As soon as I woke up I knew what was happening. In fact I had a really bad feeling the Friday before. My body was definitely telling me something was wrong. Finally after a few hours of SCREAMING, CRYING, Punching the Love Sac in our living room and soaking Ty’s t-shirt with my tears and boogers I called my mom and she convinced me I needed to go to the emergency room. I didn’t want to. I DID NOT WANT TO GO!! I figured I already knew what was happening so I might as well just stay home and deal with it in the privacy of my own bedroom. None the less, she was pretty persuasive and we were off to St. Marks. The ride to the hospital was THE WORST. THE WORST! Did I mention that it was the WORST EVER! The reason it was the worst is because this time around we were ready. Maybe we weren’t ready financially but mentally and emotionally we were ready to finally bring a child in to the world. Tyrone was excited; we were both excited. And for the few days of bliss that we experienced and the hope that we held on to for about four days or so having that come crashing down is crushing to ones spirit. We were both crushed. As we were waiting in the waiting room my parents came over and I felt myself begin to cringe at the sight of my mom’s face. Not her face but the look on her face. I did not want to see “those” looks again. Although I know my mom doesn’t pity me and I know she means the absolute best I just did not want to be going through this again. Because now that this is number two (my first happened two and a half years ago when I was 11 weeks a long) I knew the looks were going to get worse and be filled with even more pity. Because people are not positive during these times (ok some people are but MOST are NOT). I was thinking about this as well while I was laying in the hospital bed for roughly FOUR HOURS and after a few pity looks from the nurse who was helping me. I was not looking forward to the next week or so of hearing everyone and their dog’s opinions about what is WRONG with me. Since because I’ve had two miscarriages they assume that something just has to be wrong. Even though most doctors and medical online sites will tell you that over 40% of pregnancies end in miscarriages. And a large percentage of women will have MULTIPLE miscarriages before they eventually have a successful pregnancy. Some of this I know is my own paranoia about the whole thing about what I assume people are saying about me behind my back. Some of its paranoia and some of it is FACT because I am a woman and I know how we work and how much shit we talk. Most of the time we can’t help it – we think we are bringing awareness to the issue when in reality we are just judging and flat out gossiping.

{Let me step down from my soap box to finish telling you my story.}

Regardless of other people’s assumptions of the worst, I’m not about to assume something is wrong with me just because this has happened but at the same time I am not going to over look the possibility that there could be. I’ll let my doctor help Ty and I out with determining that.

The nurse’s looks kinda pissed me off at first but just before we were ready to go home she opened up about her own experiences and gave me some advice. It was really nice to hear that in the empathetic way she talked to me. She had two miscarriages as well before she was able to give birth to a perfectly healthy baby who is now 12 years old. To finalize what I am trying to say, I think we should be supportive and positive for each other and let go and LET GOD. I don’t think that this happened because I did something to make it happen and most doctors will tell you that it’s out of your hands. Before I left the hospital I finally felt better A LOT BETTER. Seriously. I wasn’t burying my feelings or trying to cover up anything. I just felt better. I was still sad no doubt, but I finally had the realization that it’s not in my hands and that if it is going to happen it will happen in God’s time not my own or because I finally stop shooting up meth. Okay, I don’t do meth (just on weekends). Ha! I do drink a lot of caffeine though ;)

Part II – Sweet

All while this was going on my nephew was starting to bust down the door. He was ready to enter the world.

Sunday evening my family came over and brought TONS of ice cream, because you know it cures ALL combined with funny movies. They also got us a pumpkin which almost made up for it all. Having them over really helped Ty and I get through it instead of lying in bed all evening drowning in self pity and deep depression. Deep depression was definitely heading our way. If it wasn’t already with all the job related BS that has been happening to us – it was definitely HERE NOW. Funny thing, when we were talking about what we were going to do during the day Monday Rachel joked around about us having to make our way to AF because she would probably be having Hagen anytime after 1pm. We all laughed it off but thought how cool it would be if it did actually happen and well, it did. Her intuition was dead on. After her one o’clock appointment with her doctor my mom and I got a call from my brother that they were going to induce her and that Hagen would be here sometime that evening. We were jumping with joy in my dining room.

You’re probably wandering how I could possibly be excited about this considering what I was going through. I’ve been asked this a handful of times already. How could I be excited about this? When on Monday morning I still had not passed the embryo (my baby) and the sac at this point. I still had a few long days before me that the doctor had warned about. But I was ready for it. I just thought “BRING IT ON!! I’ve got my Ibuprofen, Tylenol and diaper size maxi pads; let’s get this OVER with already. I want to meet my nephew DAMMIT!!” I was not about to be robbed of this experience because something awful was happening to me. I also didn’t want my family tip-toeing around me either. I didn’t want them to feel they needed to do that. And I think that I was just over-all so sick of being down and out. Once he finally arrived we had another jumping session in the waiting room and when he was ready to go to the nursery we followed behind with his proud dad close to his side. As we came around the corner of the nursery the only thing I had on my mind was seeing Hagen. My mind was clouded with happiness with no thought of what I was going through. I was in a moment of bliss until I was standing face to face with the nursery window and seven other newborns all laying side-by-side. SEVEN MOTHER FUCKING BABIES!! SEVEN!!!! I literally lost it. I had to walk over to a chair because I could hardly breathe. Those SEVEN babies took my breath away and not in a good way. It sucked so bad seeing them all laying there. Before I could catch my breath I could feel Tyrone next to my side with his arms around me both of us feeling the same crappy way. I wanted to kick and scream again but my better side quickly kicked in and I was back to admiring the new dad and his handsome boy in the nursery. It was just a moment of sucky-ness. I honestly couldn’t tell you where I was pulling this strength from. Sometimes I can barely tell if I even have a good side. It does make an appearance on rare occasions.

I’ve heard people say “with death comes new life” and we were experiencing it in the most literal way.

Everyday I would get a text from my friend Jenni asking me if I was okay. Just her simple way of checking in on me helped tremendously. She doesn’t know that; maybe I should tell her or just let her find out on here. Ha! That evening while we were waiting for Hagen’s arrival in the waiting room at the hospital I got a text from her asking how I was and I told her where I was. Her response was “That has got to be Bitter Sweet.” That pretty much summed it up, honest and real. I’ve been thinking about that ever since I decided to write about this. I didn’t want to sweep this under the rug because that’s “what you do”. Sorry I’m not kind of gal. I’d rather people hear it from my mouth than from some chicken’s big mouth.

For now the days are good. It’s been nice to hold Hagen and just stare at his handsome face. There have been some rough days too. And I know that I am entitled to a few more melt downs. In the next few months we may try again or we may not. One thing I know we will keep praying and trying to stay positive. Ty is Mr. Positive. He helps me with this so much. He doesn’t even know because his actions speak louder than words. He has had an extremely rough year. I hate it when people say this but unfortunately it’s been true, it has been a roller coaster ride. I am so lucky to have a wonderful partner for the journey.

*Correction - after speaking with my doctor he says that 80-90% of pregnancies end in miscarriages.