Capulet

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About Capulet

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    It takes more effort to hate than it does to love.

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  1. For the last two or three years, I've gotten the holiday cards with a blank framed slot in the front for the 4x6 photo insert to go into; that's usually the time of year when I have to literally threaten the removal of any and all electronic devices from my kids' possessions until they agree to take a photograph that I can have 20+ copies made of. They'll protest, still...even if I threaten to change the wi-fi password until they comply. And I'd probably change it to something SO silly, something like, "cheese," JUST to annoy them even more once photos had been successfully obtained and I've freed them. Once the holiday decorations have been put out, (and today, we've finally finished decorating the house, inside and outside!) I'll whip out the camera and tell them to get in front of the tree, it's 'holiday card picture time.' "But Mahhhhh.....we're getting too old for this..." The moaning and groaning starts. From both of them, even though they SHOULD know better, by now. It happens EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. The son will attempt to retreat into his room after I'll have warned him earlier in the day that a photo shoot was planned for the evening. Daughter will say she's having a bad hair day. Or she'll say she has a rash on her teeth. Anything but pictures! "No, you're not too old!" I'm doing all sorts of head acrobatics as I'm nudging the both of them into the direction I want them. "Move to the left. No, not you...your sister. Now, bring your heads closer together. Now, smile....(snap...snap...) Would you STOP giving me that look?" Let me add that the daughter thinks that smirking is smiling. To a sixth grader, maybe. But for a Christmas picture, it's just not appropriate. We're sending these cards to people we actually like. "Listen," I finally said to both of them after many failed attempts at good photos, due to closed eyes, smirks, deadpan looks..."If you two don't want to take a picture, then fine...just know that I am not opposed to finding the nearest JC Penney's portrait studio. I'm still a member of the portrait club and being a member, I get free sittings. If it means I have to drive forty miles away to get a free sitting, you bet your asses, I will do that. And you'll have to be dressed in your Sunday best clothing, your hair will have to actually be combed, you'll (I point to the son) have to shave that mess you call a the beginnings of a beard, find a button-down shirt and tie...and YOU (I point to daughter) will have to actually detangle your mop of hair, which requires a heavy brushing by yours, truly (I point to me now, with a big smile on my face). Then of course, you'll have to get a nice pair of pantyhose...the nicer the pair of tights, the more itchy it is...or maybe you can wear the ugly Christmas sweater you got last year from Aunt So-and-so in Kissimmee. (We don't have one of those, but you get the idea) Then, once we get to JC Penney's, you two can drive the photographer crazy, and I'll make sure she takes out every single stuffed animal prop she owns and I'll tell her that it's the only way to get you both to smile properly. Either way, if I have to go through all of that to get a decent picture of both of you ungrateful brats, then so help me, lord, I will. Or you can smile right now, cooperate, say 'cheese,' and this can be over in five minutes." The two of them exchange a look. They look at me again, mouths hanging. I stand there with my camera in one hand, the other hand on my hip. My eyes are saying that I'm dead serious. "So, you want us in front of the tree, yeah?" The son was always the smarter one. He's now nudging his sister, who's nodding frantically. I must say, the thought of having to sit through a hair-brushing was what did it. Her hair is very much like Hagrid's from Harry Potter. Just PICTURE trying to run a brush through that. It's certainly not worth all the smirking she had been doing! "Correct." Camera's at the ready, I'm delighting at their change of heart. "And...oh, we'll pretend we're giving each other a gift?" He bends and pulls a box out from under the tree, then smiles as he hands a gift to his sister, who, in turn, smiles nicely. "Like this?" (snap, snap) Mission, accomplished. I didn't really want to have to go to JC Penney's, but it's good to know that threat still works. - Capulet
  2. Hi @TigerN, and welcome to AS. You are not alone, there is an abundance of support here. Take gentle care, Capulet
  3. Hello and welcome to AS. It is never too late to start healing, I hope that being here is helpful in your journey! Best, Cap
  4. You all may remember that before my transition over to the ‘dark side,’ (term used in reference to the same-sex relationship I am currently in) I was married to an extremely difficult man. Mr. His-Way-Or-The-Highway, also known as my ‘wasband,’ was always, ALWAYS stubborn as a mule, on top of being quite adept in the powers of intimidation. No one wanted to deal with his wrath, people would feel as if they were teetering on eggshells around him. He knew that, and of course, still knows that. It is safe to say we are ONLY friends because we share children in common; most of the time, I don’t want to be around him either. The only reason I spend holidays with him is because he INSISTS upon the children being with him on every major holiday and they’re not yet given any choice in the matter. Plus, despite his shortcomings, the wasband is a VERY good cook. It eliminates my need to cook or clean on holidays, small price to pay in my opinion. The alternative is to spend the holiday with the Oompa Loompa and that’s an entirely different headache. At times, she’ll come to the wasband’s as well, and usually a good time is had without my sister’s and brother-in-law’s guaranteed drama being present. Anyway, my daughter has been telling me lately that she hates being at her father’s house, that he's harsh on them and makes them get up early and clean. Of course, she's 11, she exaggerates, so I take that with a grain of salt. Now, a huge part of her not wanting to go is that she’s forever locking horns with her father's wife. Another contributing factor is that she is, in many ways, just like the wasband - stubborn, always has to have the last word, and doesn’t do well with being told what to do. She doesn’t see her stepmother as an authority figure, so end result, she will fight with her Dad’s wife and giggle gleefully to herself when her Dad takes her side. Yes, she IS a spoiled brat at times, but I do appreciate that he will keep his wife in check when he sees fit. This is not to say that both he and I don’t put her in her place when she needs it. However lately, he’s been cracking down on both of their attitudes (they don’t give it to me as much as they give it to his wife, and they certainly don’t do it in front of their father) and my guess is, he’s gotten to the point where he’s tired of hearing his wife complain about our kids. Plus, he went from being able to walk to work to now having to commute 2 hours by car each way, leaving at 5am and getting home close to 7-8pm every night has turned him into even more of an unbearable pain in the ass. His wife is the one dealing with all the housework, cooking, cleaning, laundry, kids, etc…so I can certainly understand the stress she puts up with. Please don’t misunderstand - I do not envy her or sympathize with her. When he asked me for a divorce back in 2008, it only took him a couple of weeks to “find someone online that he’d like to take on a date,” leading me to believe he’d been talking to her long before calling it quits with me. If I were to ask him today, he’d deny it up and down and insist that his meeting her was one of those right time, right place kind of situations. I’m a lot of things - stupid is not one of those things. I shrugged it off back then and really didn’t see the point in caring too much about our inevitable split. Part of me didn’t want to reconcile, anyway. NOT if it meant being forever miserable. But, ya know…if anything, his wife did me a favor. She took him off my hands. He is now HER problem. And I’m in a MUCH healthier, happier relationship now. She made her bed, now she has to live with her decision. So…back to my daughter for a bit of a side story... Last night, my younger brat wanted to have two of her friends spend the night at my house. She begged me from the moment she walked in from school…until I told her that there were a few things she needed to do for me before I’d allow it. Her room had to be made spotless. She had to sweep the stairs and hallway downstairs. She had to clean the cat box. She had to clear her desk of all slime-making supplies and then vacuum the carpet in her room. She had to put her clothes away, properly, folded neatly and in the correct drawers. What do you know...she did it all! She did need a nudge here and there but she did it. Damn it. I’d been hoping she would falter on her assigned chores and I’d have a reason NOT to allow her friends to spend the night…but when she sets her mind to something, she’ll do whatever it takes. On a positive note, I guess this means she’ll not be able to make any silly excuses later on when she's asked to do these things again. So anyway, two friends met up with her at the bowling alley. When I was done with my league play, I’d bring the girls home. We get home and one of them says she didn’t eat lunch or dinner before coming to the bowling alley to meet up with my daughter. Did I have any food for her? Okay. The kid’s hungry. So I nuke corn dogs for them. Not exactly my food of choice but at 11pm, that’s all that I had the energy to make. They inhaled those corn dogs and then disappeared downstairs. By now, the late night headache was setting in and I retreated to my room. I woke up with the same headache at 7am, took three Excedrin (because sometimes two does absolutely nothing) and went back to sleep. I got up a couple hours later and went downstairs to check on the girls. They were all awake. I asked if they’d like breakfast. The Corn Dog girl says yes. So I go make them pancakes and scrambled eggs. Then I ask them both to check in with their mothers and make sure they find out from their Moms what time they need to be ready to be picked up. Because usually, a kid’s mother wants them back eventually, right? No, I guess not, maybe their mothers don’t like them too much, either or they were perfectly fine with my keeping their kids for as long as their kid would like to stay at my house. One girl’s mother wasn’t going to be getting home from work until after three. The other one’s mother just said for her to be home whenever I could bring her home. Let it be known that neither mother offered to come get their kid from my house. I do know both mothers are drivers and are capable of saying, “Hey, you’re feeding and taking care of my kid overnight, maybe I’ll make your life a little easier and come pick her up in the morning…” No such thing was ever said. So, we’re eating breakfast now…Corn Dog girl eats her eggs and my daughter’s eggs too. My two go to their Dad’s on Saturdays, mid-day. So I told both my daughter’s friends to tell their mothers that I would be driving them both home at 4pm because my daughter's father would be coming at 4:30 to get her. Now, MY daughter pipes in and says, “Why do I have to go back to Dad’s? I hate going there.” I shrug and tell her that it’s how it always is, they’re with me Wednesday afternoons after school through Saturday evenings and with him Sat nights until they leave for school Wed morning. It’s a split down the middle and my house and the wasband’s are literally seven minutes’ drive apart. It works out nicely. Of course, until recently, BOTH kids have come home and said they hate being at his house because it’s nothing short of chaotic. “Did Dad ever abuse you?” My daughter asks me. In front of her friends. Six wide eyes staring at me at the same time, now. “No.” I tell her. While it’s not the first time I have lied to my daughter, I feel that her idea of abuse is not the same as mine. At 11 years old, she probably thinks being abusive is limited to being violent/physical. The wasband was not that way with me, but he was certainly mentally and emotionally abusive. He made me feel about two inches tall for most of our marriage, to the point where divorce was a blessing. My 17-year-old certainly can make that connection and recognize his father’s words and actions as being abusive in nature but his sister cannot. She sees him as angry and to her, anger equals violence equals spankings. I just told her (and her nosy friends) that her Dad and I just couldn’t get along and that was why we divorced. He’s absolutely not an easy man to live with, but he’s still her father and he still provides for her. One day, I’ll tell her that there are so many different forms of abuse, and she’ll understand more in depth how her father is. I’m still not sure how I’m going to touch the SA topic with her, but thankfully, the wasband is not in any way involved in any of my memories of SA - this is never a mental picture she will associate with her father, and for that, I’m grateful. I do think it’s important for her to recognize any and all kinds of abusive behavior, but it just wasn’t the right time to have a heart-to-heart with two sixth graders at my kitchen table. Luckily, she accepted that answer, and we went about our day. She and her friends played outside while I showered and got ready. I then went to Wal-Mart to pick up another string of lights for the bedroom window and then told her friends that I would now be driving them home. Of course, all three girls tell me they’re hungry, would I hit up the Burger King drive-thru on my way? Sure. Why not? I told them to pick value menu stuff to have as a snack. They’d had their pancakes and eggs at 11:30am, so how damn hungry could these kids be? Especially Corn Dog girl, this kid is a string bean and the amount of food she’d eaten at my house was insane, I wasn’t sure where she was putting all of it. The other girl lived furthest away, so she was the first drop-off. I’d met her mother at the bowling alley a couple weeks ago. Her mother was also at home at the time we arrived. I didn’t know where to park, so I pulled up to the front of the house and while I left the engine running, my daughter and Corn Dog girl both walked their friend to the door. They disappeared into the house. I waited, half-expecting the mother to come outside and thank me for getting her child home in one piece. Or wave through a window. Or come to the door in her robe and curlers and pretend she’d been busy instead of sitting on her ass all day long while someone else took care of their child. No such appearance made by this girl’s mother. My daughter and Corn Dog girl came back out, got back into the car. Off we went to Corn Dog girl’s house next. She mumbled a quick ‘thanks’ when she got out of the car…a brief expression of gratitude that I didn’t even hear until my daughter told me later on that she did indeed thank me for allowing her to spend the night at our home. The first girl didn’t even get that far. No mother in the bathrobe at Corn Dog girl’s house, either. I asked my daughter if her parents had been home. “Yeah, they were both home.” “I see.” I shifted the car into drive and headed home. I then proceeded in telling my daughter that her two friends, as nice and as lovely as they both were, need a little bit of a lesson in MANNERS and so did their mothers! I don’t expect much from 11 year olds, but I’ve always taught MY children to be grateful to anyone who shows them kindness, anyone who feeds them, lets them come to their homes. You not only say thank-you once, you say it many times! My daughter may be a brat, but she’s respectful. I also told her that the next sleep-over would take place at one of THEIR houses. Maybe my child can teach their parents a thing or two about courtesy? I got home around 4pm, which was pretty much on schedule, since usually the wasband comes for kids around 4:30. I come to find out that he had called our son while I was out being my daughter’s friends’ taxi and asked that I drop the kids off to his house rather than him come get them. Since he and his wife were not at home at the time this request was made, I said I’d do it if he’d set a place for me at dinner - J was working a double shift, my headache had intensified and I didn’t feel like cooking for just myself. He agreed. I waited a little while, strung up the lights I’d bought at Wal-Mart and then got the kids into the car and off we went to the wasband’s house. We get there and let me tell you, I cannot be more grateful for what I have now as opposed to the chaos that ensues the millisecond you walk into his house. Not only is it usually in disarray, it’s akin to walking into a zoo and all the cages, pens and enclosures are left open. To start with, he has four dogs that bark and jump simultaneously as soon as they realize that there is company present, three cats that don’t make much noise but will scatter in every which direction the dogs are NOT headed in, and when our two are with him, SIX kids running around TRYING to look busy. Then there’s of course, him and his wife. He can usually be seen barking out orders and everyone following directions without question - because that’s how they’re all used to it being over there. The son usually compares his father to Hitler, and I hate to say he’s certainly onto something. When the wasband speaks, everyone listens. When he says, ‘jump,’ we ask ‘how high?’ There is no middle road, no negotiating. My children have had that indoctrinated in them since they were born. I’m the gentle, more compassionate parent and he is, and always will be, the hard-assed slave-driver. Anyway, aside from the dogs barking, cats running away and messy house (and I mean MESSY) there was existing drama when we arrived. I walked into the wasband’s house and the wasband was chasing the smallest dog around the house - apparently while he and his wife were at the supermarket, the dogs had some kind of a canine pow-wow in the living room and left piss and shit and a trail of Christmas lights, garlands and decorations strewn all over the floor. Once he managed to catch the dog and rubbed his nose into its mess, he grumbled something about how he hoped I wasn’t in a hurry because dinner would be delayed for about an hour. I told him that was fine and I sat in the den with my daughter while he and his wife prepped dinner. A little while later, I hear hollering coming from the kitchen. I look at my daughter, inquiring what happened. Apparently wasband’s wife’s son had been given the task of checking the pork chops that wasband had breaded and placed onto the smoker to further crisp-ize. Instead of just checking that nothing was burning, his wife’s son decided to pick up a pair of tongs and turn them, subsequently causing the crispy coating to fall off. It likely wasn’t even his fault entirely; the smoker perhaps hadn’t been sprayed with the anti-stick stuff so the coating on the pork chops had stuck to the grill. Anyway, the wasband lost his shit. He went ballistic on his stepson, then turned to my son and ordered him to go and do some damage control. My son apparently made a wise-assed comment back to his father, alluding that entrusting his stepbrother with the task of checking pork chops was not a good idea, what did he expect? The wasband yelled at him, too, basically threatened the well-being of our son if he didn’t learn to control what came out of his mouth. Then he loomed over him and dared him to keep talking. My son said nothing, instead he bit his tongue until it bled and focused on the gravy he was now preparing. He refused to speak to his father, or even to look at him, despite the wasband’s face being inches from his, and his urging him to speak, trying to bully him into saying the wrong thing. Still, my son maintained his composure and continued to say nothing. He reminded me so much of myself right then, I have to say. There HAD been times, although granted, not that severe, when the wasband had dared ME to speak, to go ahead and disagree with what he was saying, and I’d freeze. I’d say nothing because, well, there WAS absolutely nothing I could ever say that was acceptable to him. He was right, I was wrong. Just like right now, he IS right, my son was one hundred percent wrong because he’d talked back. And even if a small part of me secretly applauded my son for speaking up to his father, I fear for him at times. He probably WILL catch a fist from his father one of these days, and seeing as our son is just six months shy of adulthood, if it were ever to come to blows, he’d likely end up at my house permanently because he’d not have to follow orders anymore. I don’t want this for my children at all. I want them to have a relationship with their father. A HEALTHY, loving relationship with the man I chose to be their Dad. I want them to know their father as a kind man, but even I don’t remember him being compassionate or kind or loving toward his family whenever we weren’t around strangers or he wasn’t trying to make an impression on someone or actually mislead people into thinking he were a stand-up guy. He’s forever complaining about the kids, about how they’ve got mouths on them (gee, I wonder why?) and how I, as their mother, need to keep them in check. I don’t think they’re the problem. I know that ninety percent of the time, the wasband is the problem. He is a product of a broken home, himself. His mother was a drug addict, his father was physically and emotionally abusive. His parents divorced when he was a young child and he spent quite some time in foster care before he ran away from home at fifteen. He moved in with a relative on the east coast and eventually joined the military right out of high school. The military mindset was quickly adopted and that, as well as what he’d been taught about home life as a child, has contributed to the molding of the person he is today - you can see why he became the difficult man he remains to be now, even though he is retired from the army and his parents are not in his life. The wasband has such denial about it all, too. He doesn’t see these problems. Instead, he points fingers. The children all see it. They make little comments to me, in private, and all I can really do about it is listen to them and in my own way, compensate for how they’re treated by the wasband by treating them with the love and respect they deserve when they’re with me. He says I coddle them, but if you ask me, I have to, in order to preserve whatever shred of sanity they may still have in them. Sadly, I’ve concluded that in the long run, he’s going to lose their affections entirely. That’s truly unfortunate, because my kids are good people (they didn’t learn the good behavior from him…if they had turned out to be like him personality-wise, I probably would have let him have full custody!) and I’m proud to say that I’ve taught them to always be respectful to others. Sure, they have their moments but you know, kids are kids. They’re going to have moments when they mouth off. No kid is completely devoid of smart-assedness but if you ask me, this is healthy. A kid should be able to exercise sarcasm within respectful margins, of course. There are, however, times they slip and that’s when you, as a parent, step in and using love and logic, teach them with words, examples and explanations, how to handle the day-to-day situations as they unfold in front of them. I’ll never teach them anger, never teach them rage, and never, EVER will they be of the impression that any form of bullying is okay. Because this is what their father is - one big, fat bully. Not only do I have to teach them how to handle things in stride, I’ve got to teach my son how to be a good man. I don’t know the first thing about being a man, obviously, but I do know that I don’t want him to be like the wasband, who is on his third wife, who tonight I think, was in tears because it had been her son who had messed up the pork chops. She saw him lose his shit, interrogate the poor kid, rip into him for trying to be helpful (when really, that was all he’d been trying to do, help by flipping the pork chops…) Because he was standing there screaming at and belittling her son, she eventually took his side and hollered at him, too. I felt horrible for him, so I made sure to let him know before I left that the pork chops tasted just fine, even if the coating had fallen off. Looking at her cry, though, I see that she’s trapped, like I had once felt I was, being married to him. It also tells me that I have to teach my daughter something that I never would have learned for myself had he not initiated the divorce, and that is how to take a stand and how NOT to allow herself to be treated by anyone, be it a man, woman or a classmate. There is NO excuse for the way her father behaves at times, but that’s just so damn tricky to explain right now, especially to an 11 year old. I have to search for ‘loopholes’ and explain things to her in a manner where I’m not openly bashing her father, but at the same time, teaching her the difference between good and bad parenting. And while I teach her, I have to remember that despite her reluctance to go spend time at his house, she does love him. As for the wasband, there’s absolutely no hope for him as far as change goes. He is who he is because of the poor values instilled in him as a child; all we can truly hope for is that the children I share with him have learned to be more like me than they have him. If occasional stubbornness is all they inherit from him, then I can certainly live with that. I just hope it doesn't get to the point where their relationship becomes irreparable, because that will truly be the point of no return. If that were to happen, then he'd have no one to blame but himself. The only problem? He's never to blame! Listen...if you’re a parent…tell your kids you love them, every day. Even if it is done in a one-line text or a little note in their lunch bag. Hug them, as often as you can. Because these hugs, even if they squirm and complain about them, are still secretly loved. Trust me on this. Tell them they’re amazing. Because they are. Even if sometimes, they’re spoiled brats. They’re still your children and they’re going to be just like you. And you’re amazing too, aren’t you? ;) In all seriousness, it has become so much more evident that children are more likely to mimic favorable behaviors if they witness it often enough. I know I am doing my part. It saddens me that people like my wasband, and my daughter's friends' mothers are teaching their children to be angry, bullies and just plain rude and ungrateful. Sadly, we can only control the behavior we choose to show our children and others around us. And of course, we can also control who we invite to spend an overnight at our homes, while we're at it. Until next time. - Capulet
  5. Welcome, @soodles! Welcome to AS. This is a wonderful place to be and I hope you find all of the support you need! Best. Capulet
  6. To those of you celebrating Thanksgiving today with family and friends and loved ones - I wish you a blessed and wonderful day!  

    To those who have chosen to celebrate Thanksgiving alone or who struggle with holidays in general, I extend all of my unconditional love and support and want you all to know that even though I may not know you, I am  still thinking of you, too.  I truly hope that today, you do something special for yourselves, just because you deserve it.  You are worth it.  NOTHING changes that.  

    Happy Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this site and for all of you.

    - Cap

    1. Kmkz

      Kmkz

      A wonderful and thoughtful message. I echo your sentiments back to you and everyone.

  7. LOL! We could all have paid better attention in computer classes, hehe. On the bottom of the forums index page, there is a color-coded cluster of links...Admins, Moderators, Section Moderators, etc. Clicking on one of those links will list who does what task here on AS. @Rose is an administrator online frequently. I am sure she can best assist you with this matter!!! Happy Holiday week, hope you are doing well. Cap
  8. Hi Jen, I briefly looked at your profile and your name and last initial are not showing anywhere other than in your actual user name, which is @Jen G. If this username is anonymous and is not your actual name or last initial, I think you're good because there is nothing I can see on your profile that tells me otherwise. If your user name is what you feel you want to change, I believe that if you can contact an Administrator, they can likely change your username for you without your having to re-register entirely. I can be wrong as I've been gone a long time but it's worth asking. Best wishes. Capulet
  9. You are in the right place and I welcome you here. I hope you find the support you need - this is a fantastic community and there are so many kind folks here willing to listen and stand by you as you heal. Best wishes. Capulet
  10. Shouldn’t trigger, unless language/the discussion of guilt bothers you. Today, I spoke to my mother, also known fondly as the ‘Oompa Loompa.’ We were trying to finalize this week’s Thanksgiving plans. A couple entries ago, I explained how she is still breast-feeding my 30 year old sister, who just had a baby of her own. She goes there every day, cooks for her, does the housework, the laundry, et cetera, because apparently my sister doesn’t quite know yet how to allow someone else to hold the baby while she cooks or shops or does something productive around the house. So, my mother continues to enables her and picks up the slack of being a wife, mother, grandmother, caretaker of a newborn, cook and housekeeper all rolled into one. Now, this isn’t a jab on my sister - I know we all have to learn somehow. It’s her first baby. I KNOW how hard it is and how overwhelming it can be when all they do is cry, cry, and CRY. I know that sleep deprivation can render you useless at any given time…hell, I’m sleep deprived on a regular basis and don’t have a squalling infant to blame that on. So I shrug off my feelings and tell myself she’ll know the ropes by the time her second kid arrives. I do have to say though, the end result of my mother’s excessive coddling has been rough because now she’s exhausted and WE haven’t seen her in over a month. The time I planned to go and see her was derailed when J and I both had a stomach bug and we wanted to remain cautious and stayed away from the baby. Will be seeing my sister and the baby this Saturday, after Oompa Loompa comes here for Thanksgiving. This entry isn’t even about my sister, though. Or the Oompa Loompa, even though much amusement can be derived from talking about her and her shenanigans… Before we hung up, Oompa had some news for me. Her brother, my uncle, the ‘Reverend,” his unholy disgustingness, is in the hospital. Little background information. Other than looking like your classic creepy pedophile, he was always overweight and unhealthy. He’s diabetic, has bad knees and always, always seemed to have something wrong with him. Aside from mentally, of course. And now, physically. I’m surprised that no one else has the same effect from looking at him. I personally want to literally projectile vomit whenever I see his face. But I guess the point I’m trying to make…he was probably a fucking cat with nine or more lives in a previous life…I don’t understand why or how he’s still breathing. If you ask me, he doesn’t deserve the air he breathes. Yet, he keeps coming back to life. See…I remember this time from when I was eighteen and in college. I was living at my father’s house since he lived closer to the campus. I remember coming home from classes and my father telling me that my uncle was in the hospital, having suffered a massive heart attack earlier that afternoon. He survived that massive heart attack. Then, when I was somewhere between 21 and 22, my grandmother passed, and we all remember the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me. I might have cried if he didn’t survive that first heart attack, because this was before I came to realize that there was some suppressed feelings of animosity. He was Uncle L, and I hate to admit it, but on some level, there was love for him, because that was simply what being a family member entitled you, regardless of what a piece of shit you really were. And I know I’ve said it before but kids have unconditional affection for members of their families, especially the kids who don’t remember that they’re supposed to hate them. He ended up in the hospital again, after my grandmother’s death (if you read the blog entry, ‘Want Some Fries With That Invalidation?’ then you may remember a rather uncomfortable encounter I had with him there) riddled with infection, and he survived that, too. He underwent a quadruple bypass about three years ago. He was told by his doctors that he was a ‘ticking time bomb’ and the bypass surgery posed multiple risks, but if he didn’t have it, he was toast…it would just be a matter of time… Well…despite my secret prayers for a one-way ticket to hell, he survived the bypass surgery, too. Apparently, right now, his tiny, black heart is causing him some issues (I didn’t care to ask what kind of issues) and they admitted him into the hospital last night. She has plans to see him the week after Thanksgiving. In the meantime, he’s going to rot there while they run tests to try and figure out what his problem is, this time. I hung up with Oompa Loompa and felt the corners of my mouth turn upwards. Oh, my God, guys… I’m feeling like I’m a horrible, horrible person. Here I am…I’m SMILING like an idiot. I might have chuckled, too. I don’t think I’ve laughed completely yet, but…seriously? Am I that heartless? Am I capable of such hatred toward another person? A SICK person at that? I don’t think I like that about myself. I wasn’t raised that way. I was raised to be warm, loving, kind. To be gentle. To forgive. Forgiveness is so tricky in this case, though. I think I’d sooner forgive the man who SA’d me in 1996 than I would my uncle, and I can’t even remember why I hate him so much. My brain simply denies me that information, and for now, that’s okay. The thought of him being in the hospital is simply delightful. The thought of him spending Thanksgiving by himself while I spend it with my loved ones, is pure joy. Of course, if someone in the family would go pick his disgusting ass up, he’d come spend holidays with us but at this point, even my mother, his own sister, doesn’t want to take the two-hour trek each way, because not only would she have to go pick him up, she’d have to bring him back home to his cockroach-infested shit-sty. Not to mention she knows well enough by now that if he is there, I will not be. I haven’t seen him since my sister’s (the new mother’s) wedding day. It couldn’t be helped. I made sure to avoid him completely. Didn’t look at him, walked away when he walked past me in church to say hello. I made sure to leave the room whenever he walked in. And that’s been perfectly fine with me because I have not one shred of love left for this man and I’ve no desire to see him until he’s laid out in a coffin, or even more appropriate, a cheap-o cardboard box. If it were up to me, that’s what he’d get, only because by law, he would have to be placed into a receptacle before being buried. Then, I can spit into his dead, lips-sewn-shut face just before they put him in the ground. And then, after he’s been buried, I, Capulet, am having a party. My house. You’re all invited. Lots of junk food and laughs to be had. I will celebrate his departure from this world, just as strongly as I mourned my grandmother’s. I will have you all know, I feel terrible for having just said that. Just plain terrible. It’s not something that as a mother, I would ever teach my kids to feel when someone is sick, in pain or otherwise hurting. The guilt over having said such cold things about another human being is present, but at the same time, I’ve been waiting a very, very long time for my non-human friend, Karma, to show up. I just wonder…how many chances at life is this man going to get? What has he done to deserve all of these tomorrows? Why do so many good people suffer, and these monstrous sons-of-bitches who prey on innocent children keep on ticking? If that’s not the most fucked up thing in the world, I don’t know what is. On another note, I’ve been told that his death (whenever Karma ever does do her fucking job) may bring forth a slew of memories, of actual remembrances. Another epiphany may occur and I’ll know exactly why I hate him. I will know why the thought of him being reduced into a pile of shit, maggots and formaldehyde makes me giddy enough to smile. Maybe I won’t feel so guilty, if I find that later on, my suspicions turn out to be the truth I seek. Is that what Karma is waiting for? For me to be ready? I seriously doubt that Karma is in tune with my suppressed memories, but either way, it’s taking too damn long for this pathetic excuse of a person to succumb to his shitty health. I apologize to you all if this has shined a different, unfavorable light onto me as a person. I’ll be honest with you all, I don’t like what I hear, either, when it comes to my thoughts. Like I said before, I never thought myself capable of taking pleasure in another’s suffering, regardless of how rotten a person they may be. But I also promised myself that I’d never sugar-coat anything in my blogs, ever again. And so, I won’t. I am sorry if I’ve offended anybody, because as much as I hate my uncle, I also hate the people who have hurt you, too. I want Karma to take care of ALL of them! I’ll not lie to anyone and say I have any sympathy for their abusers’ ‘misfortunes,’ shall we say…because I don’t. I hate my uncle and I hate that people like him are still allowed to roam this Earth, I despise that these are the people who sully our beautiful existence and make us suffer. On the other hand, I know so many others feel and hear these thoughts, too. I think, though, that we all have our thirst for justice, whether it is served by way of a painful death or incarceration, it ultimately means we are free of the mental prisons these predators have sentenced us to life in. I think I’m going to be extra thankful this coming Thursday when I sit down to my turkey dinner, for the fact that I can safely say that I am a good enough person to feel even the smallest amount of guilt. It may be misunderstood, it may be unwarranted because such despicable people do not deserve any of my guilt for feeling the way I do. I know and have accepted that there are reasons I feel this way…even if these reasons aren’t known to me, they’re there, they exist. And I can furthermore conclude that the guilt I feel for smiling at the thought of my uncle laying in a hospital bed, alone, stems from my having learned kindness, despite a tarnished childhood. I’ll be damned if I’m guilted into showing him any kindness, now. With that, I want to take a moment to wish you all a blessed Thanksgiving. Whether you’re spending it with family, friends or by yourselves, I hope you’ll take a moment or two to make the day special for yourselves because you, my friends, deserve that. I know that so many of our lives are in disarray right now, and even though we struggle with our thoughts, there is always, ALWAYS something to smile about. Love, Capulet
  11. Hi @Jen G and a very big welcome to AS! There's no correct way to use a resource such as this site. We are a gentle, supportive community and we are happy to have you join us! I hope being here gives you some peace and furthermore, the courage to heal. You are not alone in this journey! Best, Capulet
  12. A light blog today, just because. Last night, we had a laugh as a family. It hasn’t happened in a while but, damn, it felt good! Not saying we aren’t a family that laughs, it’s just so easy to get caught up in the more serious day-to-day routines. Sometimes we forget to laugh, to cherish these little moments that bring us a chuckle when times become challenging. As most of you know by now, we recently moved from the city and became country bumpkins this past summer. To find a supermarket, bowling alley, restaurant, movie theater or just about any other place after five o’clock in the evening means driving down the pitch-black back roads for about fifteen to twenty minutes and bringing ourselves to the busier part of the town, where there is everything. Everything, except for an Applebee’s. For those of you who aren’t familiar, it’s a popular US chain American restaurant. They’re everywhere. It’s J’s favorite place to get a Caesar Salad and my son’s and daughter’s favorite restaurant, overall. I personally prefer Texas Roadhouse (which we DO have locally) but I do rather enjoy the Wonton Tacos that Applebee’s serves. The closest Applebee’s is about 30 miles away. So it was arranged last week that yesterday, when J got home from work, we were going to get into the car and go treat ourselves to our favorite Applebee’s meal or appetizer. Let me just insert a little story-supporting factoid here - when we first moved here, J began working for Amazon. Yes, that Amazon, the one everyone shops at online. We thought it would be pretty damn amazing, plus the 15% discount she’d get on her own Amazon purchases were a perk we would have loved to enjoy come holiday shopping time. However, J found that the bar was set way too high and the level of training was too strenuous and strict, they not only were inadequate in their methods of teaching and left very little margin for error. Let it be known that J is an exceptional, thorough worker and she is the type to do well in just about any job she takes on. Amazon, though, aside from being far too physically demanding, was too fast paced and simply didn’t want to take the time to properly train their new people…let’s call them one big-ass mindfuck, because at times, she would try to maintain accuracy and her job performance was better, although slower. They apparently rate your quality of work and her quality was not matching up to the quantity…so they basically because of that criticism, she sped things up to try and appease them and I believe the problem wasn’t in the work she was putting in, but actually the presence of technical, computer errors with her scanning device she was using. It was entering into the system incorrectly, resulting in the “too many errors” reason they gave her when she was terminated. She worked there for three weeks before they fired her. Normally, she’d have argued that the termination was unfair and unjust, but at that point, after constantly feeling overworked and underappreciated by them, she’d dosed herself with a healthy amount of ‘fuckitall’ and found a different job with better hours, benefits and pay. And a note to Amazon before I continue, in the event one of you should happen upon this post - your company SUCKS. I will still shop on Amazon simply because you do have the best deals at times, but the way you operate is absolutely ridiculous. You put my wife through the wringer, worked her to the point of collapse, you didn’t step up and help her make any necessary corrections when you saw she was struggling…instead, to show your appreciation for her hard work and efforts, you fired her. Y’all ought to be ashamed of yourself and your company. So, anyway…back to my tale for today…on our way to Applebee’s, we passed the Amazon Warehouse. You can see this huge, white building from the highway. J and I both flipped off the building as we sped past it, for they are a distant, but still unpleasant memory. We found the Applebee’s, went in, sat down, ordered and ate. Everyone got their favorite meals. The bill came to just over $100 including a tip, but everyone was happy and so it was worth it. The kids even suggested we do this every couple of months. On the way home, we were soon to pass the Amazon Warehouse again, coming from the other direction. J was being funny and in her tour-guide voice, says, “And over to our left, we will soon see the Amazon Warehouse that fired me. Let us all show them our middle finger in appreciation.” All our middle fingers went up and toward the driver’s side of the car. Yes, even my 11-year-old’s little middle went up; while I’m sure I’m not in the running for any parent-of-the-year awards, I still allowed for it because I feel she’s old enough to learn to express herself if the situation presents. Plus, she’s seen and heard f-bombs come out of my and J’s and her father’s mouths on MANY occasions. If she can successfully watch her mouth more often than letting a word slip, then I feel she’s earned the right to use a swear word when she feels the need to. Because to me, swearing is simply your way of not sugar-coating anything and letting someone know how she REALLY feels about something. If you ask me, swearing is healthy, but should still be done responsibly and she should be sure not to use such language around someone who could be offended by it (an older relative, grandparents, etc) or otherwise influenced by it, for example a younger sibling. I know that personally, I feel better if I let out a string of well-placed swears rather when I say “oh, poo.” I normally don’t condone unwarranted displays of vulgarity, but in this case, we were sticking up (our fingers) for one of our own. What we DIDN’T count on, though was the car that had pulled up next to us on the left lane. We were in the right lane and between the Amazon Building and our car, there was now another car full of unsuspecting people who, I’m thinking, probably thought we were flipping THEM off. And they’d rather conveniently pulled up, JUST in time to see all of our middle fingers go up at the same time. Add to this whole funny situation, the overhead light in the car is usually on when it’s dark outside so that lip reading is made easier…which means that not only were the cars next to us able to see our raised middle fingers, anyone driving along that highway at that particular moment could also see quite clearly our little family display of expression. When we realized this, we all quickly put our fingers away, there were a few “oh, my GODs” and “whoopses” and then, we erupted in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I’m sure my and J’s faces were red with embarrassment, but as soon as the car had passed us and was already a half dozen or so car lengths’ ahead of us, we joined the kids in hysterics. We giggled at the pure timing of it all. At what the occupants of the other car could possibly be thinking they did to piss us off. At what the sight of a sweet, baby-faced, frizzy haired, 11-year-old with her middle finger up must have looked like, especially with her two moms and brother’s fingers up right next to hers, all pointing in the same direction. At least, we’d given someone else something to ponder for the evening. We laughed for several minutes. We laughed until the tears rolled. We laughed until it hurt. Then we just smiled at one another, for a memory has been made and tucked away for one of those times where we feel we need to pluck them from the reserves for one of those instant-smiles, because there ARE times we scramble for one of these 'remember when?' moments. And, no one got hurt or arrested, so in my book, that’s a win. Live, love and laugh a whole lot. - Capulet
  13. It’s been years since I got my hair did. I was born with a full head of hair. Jet black hair at birth, then it lightened some to a brown that in the summer almost appeared dirty-blonde. My hair has been colored multiple times throughout the course of my adult life. I frosted it once, by adding streaks of blonde to my naturally brunette tresses. Wore my hair down a lot at that time, so it looked pretty good. It was also the trend; all the 90’s high school/college gals were doing it, so I followed suit. I know, I know. Thank goodness no one jumped off any bridges - I was naive enough as a teenager to believe that in order to fit in, you had to follow the leader and do exactly what they were doing. You had to wear whatever they were wearing, smoke whatever they were smoking, drive whatever they drove, and so on…tough trend to break, but I managed. Then, I went all-red. That was a big hit. When done right, I can get away with red hair. Matches skin tone and eye color nicely, if I may say so. I went purple, accidentally. Purple is my favorite color, let me tell you…I have tons of purple clothes, purple sneakers I hardly wear, purple walls in my bedroom, if I could paint my car purple, I would. But hair? I don’t think so…see, it was SUPPOSED to be the color of Lauren Holly’s hair in ‘Picket Fences.’ Unfortunately, the stylist who colored it was either color blind or simply too clueless to effectively lighten my hair before re-coloring it….either way, I rocked the purple for a few weeks before letting it fade back into my natural color. Then, I stopped trying to find the best hairstyle and color for myself and started wearing my hair the same way, every day, for over fifteen years. Those who know me, also know this look. I pull it all back and fasten it with a messy bun in the back. At one point, I had bangs, to better frame my face, but lately, my bangs have been pulled back, too. It got comfortable. J wears her hair the same way. We’re often mistaken for siblings. I’ll add that I’m still mad at some dude at the bowling alley who asked J if I was her mother. What the holy hell, dude? I’m only a year older than her. NOT cool. Next time we bowl against your team, I’m schooling your ass, JUST for that! Hmmph. A haircut consisted basically of me pulling it all back into a low ponytail and handing J the scissors. One snip and voila, it’s a few inches shorter. But it was always long enough to continue to wear the same hairstyle. And for years, that was good for me, because my hair is the only part of me that is THIN. It was thick when I was younger. I lost a great deal of it when I was pregnant with my son. Now that I’ve had my daughter and it’s even thinner, I’m fearful of inheriting my mother’s Oompa-Loompa haircut…HER hair is so thin that it’s the only style that covers the bald spot in the back. I lie through my teeth whenever she came from the salon… “Do I look any different?” (She’ll smile at me while she’s patting her hair…and those eyes tell me that I better have noticed that it was not only cut but it was also dyed…I better have the right answer or else she’ll cut me out of her will.) “Oh, absolutely, Mom. It looks fantastic. You look like you’re twenty years younger. I hope I can rock that look one day, too.” LIES. Lies, I tell you. So I went online the other day and asked for some feedback on Facebook. Everyone I’ve spoken to on this topic has told me that they think I should just go for it. Get a new ‘do. My hair is ALWAYS pulled back, and even so, it’s very obviously thin and it shows. One darling friend posted a photo of the beautiful Halle Berry. Her hair is longer on top and one side, the back and other side are long-buzzed. Kinda shaved but not to the point where the hair is so short, you can see the scalp. It’s longer on top and kind of spills over to the side that is longer. I suppose the best way to describe it is punky, but adorable at the same time. I like the idea of hacking off all my garbage hair and starting over with new, thicker hair. Unfortunately, my hair is too thin, too fine to even donate to Locks of Love, so the trash is where it’ll all end up once cut and swept off the floor…I further like the idea of maybe adding some streaks of red to the longer, top part. I feel that constantly pulling back my hair, day after day, is probably a sign that having short hair is not going to make too much of a difference. If anything, it’d be less maintenance. If I take the leap and ultimately hate it, I have plenty of hats that I can wear throughout the winter. Hopefully in the spring, it’ll be thicker and my hacking it off in the fall won’t have been a total waste. Then I’ll be googling different hairstyles and blogging about it. Anyway, after careful deliberation, I did whatever I normally do before making any hasty decisions and texted the Oompa Loompa earlier today when we were on the way home from our weekly shopping excursion, and shared the picture with her. “I don’t know, it looks a little butch.” She replies in the text back. For added effect, feel free to add Doris Roberts’ classic Marie Barone voice. Then she says, “Why don’t I get you a makeover for Christmas? We can do some research and find another one that doesn’t look so…manly?” Mind you, my mother has seen me shop for my tee-shirts in the mens’ department for as long as I could remember. She knows that getting me to wear a dress is like trying to peel the white off of rice. She knows that I find shopping for shoes, purses, bras, anything ‘feminine’ to be about as much fun as a root canal. She knows that I loathe parties or being invited to parties because it usually means I have to plan for those aforementioned ‘root canals.’ My dress-donning days are over, though. Both of my sisters got married a few years ago and I was bridesmaid to both. One dress has been donated to Goodwill and the other one narrowly escaped the burn pile, only because I’d buried it so far back in my closet and couldn’t find it when it came time to make these abominations a distant memory. I still have the shoes, though, shoes that I never will wear again and only save so my godchild can use them when she plays dress-up. I’m just amazed at how much my mother, even though she’s accepted my lifestyle and has accepted J as my same-sex partner, is still a little too concerned about my image or what I wear, or that I don’t wear make-up. Too often I’ve heard that I had to look “pretty” or dress up because someone was having a 90th birthday party next month and it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear ‘those ugly shoes’ or ‘those pants that make you look like a man’ or the same shirt you wore to Aunt Bertha’s funeral. bit*h, please. If they’re lucky enough to make it to 90, they aren’t going to give too many shits about what I’m wearing! But you kind of see where I’m going with this…it’s always the same with her. If I look or act like an idiot, it reflects badly on her and we can’t have that, now, can we? Back to the picture I showed her of Halle Berry…it is by no means masculine…at least, not to me. It’s sleek, neat, elegant almost. It’s gorgeous. A given - I do not look like her in any way. In fact, I am the complete opposite of Halle Berry. She’s tall, I’m short. She’s thin, I’m not. I can add to this list, but the gist of what I’m getting from my mother’s comment - the hair may look good on Halle Berry but on me, it looks ‘butchy.’ I almost instantly got annoyed as soon as that text came in and had to refrain from throwing my phone through the windshield. J was driving and listening to music and at the same time, me swearing. If only my mother knew how many times she has been the cause of my random swearing outbursts and my poor wife has had to listen to me come up with creative new ways to cuss out my mother. Ay yi yi yi yi… Eventually J asked why I cared so much about what my mother thought and why her opinion mattered so much. I don’t even know the answer to that. See, if you ask me, she cares too much about what HER friends think. I’m pretty sure she will tell everyone the success stories of her other two ‘normal’ daughters, before she talks about the one who was married at 21, divorced at 29, with a new partner at 30, oh, and let’s not forget that her new partner is the same sex, too. Don’t get me wrong, she’s been wonderful around J and fully supports my decision to hop on over to the ‘dark side’ but I can’t help but suspect she doesn’t worry about the images of her other two daughters as much as she does mine. I mean, one sister married an alcoholic three-year-old (says on his birth certificate that he’s thirty-something, but he often throws tantrums and acts as if he’s three) that looks like the title character of ‘Where’s Waldo?’ with this ridiculous ponytail we all envision cutting off one day, just because. They already have one kid (who really is three) that was diagnosed with autism. You’d think my sister would have enough sense to give up her theater days but she feels more comfortable dumping my autistic nephew into my mother’s care while she continues to pursue her dreams of someday becoming a Broadway star. She got started with her crooning and performing when she was about four or five years old and no one has had the heart to tell her that she has about as much natural talent as a drunk banshee. And even better - she’s currently pregnant with her second kid, another child that my mother will likely have to raise because she’s too busy running lines instead of a household. She doesn’t cook. She doesn’t clean. She just sings badly. My brother-in-law will pick up most of the slack at home, but even he’s annoyed and I’ve had to come to the conclusion that she is the main cause of his childish tantrums. That just isn’t a stable situation at ALL. Now, let’s talk about Sister number two. This is the sister that I feel closer to, even though she’s further away in age from me than sister number one. One, unfortunately has no filter on her mouth and often comes across as an overly critical piece of work. This results in a lot of family tension and dirty looks from my children. Two is more soft-spoken and knows when to hold her tongue. So, naturally, Sister number two is an overall better person and a more enjoyable person to be around. She did marry a much nicer, better-looking, sweeter man. They welcomed a daughter last month. Both are medical professionals. They have a nice house that they paid way too much for. About a week after the birth of their daughter, he had to return to work, so Sister number two calls up Mama, who, in turn, drops everything and rushes over there to help her care for the baby. And this, I understand….we ALL need a little extra help when a new baby arrives. But, man, oh, man she milks it. Just like for years before she got married, she milked it. She lived at home until the day she was married, even though she and her husband had an apartment already. She spent most of her time at Mom’s house, eating Mom’s food and letting Mom take care of her laundry, pack her lunches for work, etc. Her reasoning was, ‘Mom’s house was closer to her job,’ but I know that it’s simply because my mother enables her ‘let Mommy take care of it’ behavior. I wanted to go and see the little one last week and Mom texted me the day before to ask what I was bringing. “Say what?” I ask. Mom proceeds in telling me that Sister number two doesn’t cook, either. Apparently, for the last month, my mother, as well as any visitors who have gone to see her has brought some kind of prepared-to-heat meal for her. And it would be most helpful if I could throw together a lasagna or something that she could pop in the oven for dinner one night. “Mom,” I said, “She’s thirty years old. She’s not the first woman on the planet to reproduce.” My mother made as many excuses as possible. She’s tired, she just had a baby, her husband is working all the time, she’s overwhelmed, she’s a first-time mother, baby won’t let her do anything.… Meanwhile I’m not buying that because well, isn’t my mother also there, every single damn day? Can’t she hold the baby while my sister cooks her own dinner??? Then she starts with, “Your other sister brought her a pot pie the other day from Costco…because you know she doesn’t cook.” “Neither does this one, obviously!” “Out of the three, you’re the cook. So maybe you can bring her something yummy.” I probably would have, because I’m nice. But, I ended up not going to see my niece because both J and I came down with a stomach bug. I’ve got plans to see her on Thanksgiving weekend, though. But I got to thinking about how much she enables those two for things that are far more serious than a dress or a haircut. Look…when I had my son at 21, I took care of him. My then-husband went to work every day and I was alone with a colicky child all day. I shopped, did laundry for and prepared dinner for a family of five. (Husband and his two older children in addition to me and an infant = 5) I took the baby as well as his older two children to doctor appointments, took them to school, picked them up. It wasn’t a paying job but it was a job. I didn’t have a singing hobby on the side. I think I called my mother to babysit only a handful of times when hubby and I would have our bowling night but as far as hobbies go, that’s about all I did with that three hours of freedom per week. She used to complain that she didn’t see my children enough. Now her biggest complaint is my having moved 2 hours away from her, from both sisters, and she feels even less needed by me. They, and their children consume so much of her time and she often expresses anger at my moving so far away because I’m not there to help her help them. Of course, she masks it all by saying she misses me. I’m sure she does, but I think she’s just bitten off more than she could chew and spread herself too thin, simply because she is trying to uphold her idea of what the image of a perfect mother and grandmother is like. She delights in hearing what other people have to say about her, it’s her way of making sure she’s successful. “What did your friend think of me?” She’ll ask me after she’s met one of my friends. I usually have to lie because any one of my friends already knows my mother before they meet her in person. “They want a mother just like you.” “I’m the best.” She’ll say. “Absolutely.” The best enabler, maybe. The best whiner. The best pain in my ass. Meanwhile, what kind of an image have I provided for these two sisters of mine? There’s me who is so used to dealing with things my own damn self…and then there’s these two who, because they allowed her to take over and be such a dominant figure in their married lives, have proven themselves useless and far too reliant on my mother. And in turn, my mother meddles just enough within their lives to make herself look good in the process. I’m pretty sure that in her world, there’s a lot of “Oh, would you look at that? Look at Vee’s daughter, such a talented singer…and she’s got children at home, too!” Or, “Look at this one, just had a baby, can you imagine how rough she has it, she juggles a newborn, long hours and prescriptions!” Then of course when it comes to me, she’s afraid of hearing, “Oh…that one…she doesn’t have a job. She’s home all day, she’s a bit of a hermit…and she’s just got a butch haircut. Sssh. I think she’s a lesbian.” Well…guess what? I don’t care. I don’t give a shit. I don’t care what image my having short hair puts forth. If it makes me look like the son she never had, then so be it. I don’t care if I end up hating it because the sight of a pissed off Oompa Loompa will look funnier than me, any day. Plus, hair grows back, so it’s not a life sentence. At the end of the day, I care only what J thinks. And she already has the image of me that she wants. Hair isn’t something that matters to her. Looks don’t matter to her. (If they did, she would have chosen Halle Berry, hands-down.) I already have the image of myself that I need. I’m Vee’s daughter, but I’m also me. I’ve worked hard to be the highly perceptive person I am today. My sisters may be the ones with careers, but life-wise, I can safely say I’m smarter. Aside from being the oldest, I’m sure a lot of life experiences have contributed to my being the way I am, and I’ve accepted that a long time ago. From the time I got married too young, I’ve marched to the beat of my own drum. I think the outcome you see in me today is truly a result of having broken away from Mama’s clutches before she could do any further damage. It didn’t take too much longer than the drive home from Walmart, but I’ve decided that by the end of this week, I’ll have a new ‘do. I’ll be sure to post whether Mama survives the heart attack she’s likely to have when I Face-Time her to show her my new haircut. Maybe she’ll surprise me and say she loves it. (I do have to keep in mind, I’ve lied to her about liking her haircuts for years.) Maybe she can do the same for me. I wouldn’t even care if she lied. I just need her to stop trying to mold me into a person that I’m not. Just like you simply can’t shape clay that’s already hardened into its permanent form. Until next time, - Capulet
  14. Hello Purple! Welcome to AS! This is a great place and a safe forum filled with lots of people who are willing to lend a supportive shoulder when you need it. I'm very sorry for the loss of the person you felt you could confide in. You have my sincerest condolences! I hope you find the support you need here at AS, it has been a godsend for me in many ways. Looking forward to getting to know you. Capulet
  15. Hello, Luna, Thanks for introducing yourself and welcome to AS. I hope you find that we are a gentle and supportive community. I am sorry to hear what you've been through. Although I think congratulations are in order, on taking the first step toward healing and for letting us know you are here! See you around. Capulet