Two Years Later?

 



Hey Guys,
Long time, no talk. I honestly didn't realize how long its been since I opened this site. Looking back at old posts makes me want to cringe out of my skin. I've always said I'm not a strong writer, and these posts are more than sufficient evidence of that. Not only is my grammar atrocious, my posts are all over the place. There's no structure. If my blog were a house, and the posts were the beams of support, my "house" would be a pile of  "sticks". Not only would it be a pile of sticks, it would be a pile of sticks I wouldn't recognize now. I have changed so much in the last two years. I honestly don't feel like the same person anymore.

Curtis, my boyfriend, has told me multiple times that I should start writing again. He has asked me to start writing again, be it blog posts or stories or scenarios for my favorite game Call of Cthulhu. So, as one of the only 2017 resolutions I made, I have decided to write something at the very least twice a month. I think that is manageable (I say at the end of the month). Honestly, this is the resolution I've been afraid of the most. I'm out of practice with writing. I haven't had to write properly or formally for a very long time. Writing is like any other skill you learn. If you don't use it, you lose it. I've noticed my vocabulary has diminished, That's something else I need to work on. I'm thinking of doing a "Word of the Day" blog post. Define the word, look at it's origin, use it once in a post.  It'll keep me honest about doing it.

I think that will do as a "Welcome back" to writing. Obviously a lot has happened in the last two years, but I'm not going to write a long blog post about it. Especially since I only have two people reading this, occasionally. Thank you for those of you who do read, I appreciate it.

Word of the day: sockeroo, 1940-1945; Americanism; noun. A noticeable success, something with extraordinary power and impact.

Well, this blog isn't much of a sockeroo but hopefully, it will be soon.

Talk to you later,
D

Mary Margaret Carr

This post is going to be brief. 

Not really. That's a complete lie. 

I'm writing this post (an ode if you'd like) for my best friend of more than thirteen years, Ms. Mary Margaret Carr. 

Marebear, 

If I had to pick between you and Johnny Depp (yes, I know he's forty something and wears guyliner like it's still 2007, don't judge me) as a best friend, I would only slightly hesitate before picking you. 

No one could be as patient and hilarious as you while also being so strong and determined. It only seems like yesterday we met at school and the first thing out of your mouth was "Oh DeAnne...your hair."  You never made fun of the homemade skirts and dresses, never judged the year of (God forgive me) crocs, and were the first to jump on board and come up with theories for "The Mermaid Equation". 

To call you loyal is an understatement. From tying sisters to trees, tackling kids into drum sets to protect my honor, and breaking into pools "ya know, just because", you've leapt over mountains and beyond to make me happy, no matter how uncomfortable it may have made you. You have been there for me through every problem I've ever had, and you've never questioned me about my judgement in the presence of others. You wait until we're alone to call me out on my behavior, which I appreciate and respect. 

You're so hard on yourself, Mare, and it's heartbreaking. You did everything you could. Lee knows that. She'd hit you if she knew how badly you're blaming yourself for not doing more, not being there more. She love you, Mare. And no distance will change that.

Okay. God. Sorry, tearing up.  Back to topic at hand. At some point, you stopped being a best friend and became an adopted sister.  You're family. Really, you always have been, always will be. And that is something I never have to question. Similarly to how you have always been there for me, I will always be there for you. You're the only companion I'd ever need. You're the Jon Snow to my Sam, the merkin to my HBO. 

Though you conveniently forgot to pack me when you embarked on your amazing adventure halfway around the world (which I've decide do forgive you for, you're welcome) I feel like I'm almost living them with you. You always include pictures and make sure to point stuff out to me! 

I guess what I'm trying to say, Mary Margaret, is that you are utterly fantastic. I could not ask any existing Deity for a better best friend. And as we embark on different journies and travels in our lives, leaving our teens behind and becoming women, I could not think of a better person to end my "teens" with. Thank you so much for being born and being a part of my life.

Happy Birthday Mary. I love you! 

Your Matching Radius buddy,

DeAnne 

P.S. And because you know I'm terrible with timing, your presents late. It's worth waiting for, though, promise. ;) Here's a hint: It's edible. 

Just Plain Lost

Hello Reader(s),

Short post today.

In the last two weeks, I have managed to lose my drivers license as well as my debit card.

I was supposed to get my license while Curtis is at work so we could go to my bank and apply for a new card...but there's a small hiccup.

I have no cash. 

So instead of getting things done, I'm sitting here drinking coffee and feeling kinda bummed that I'm this irresponsible. 

This whole card loss is also making me think about my life. What am I doing?

 I'm a janitor and a lunch lady. Both very respectable jobs, but that isn't what I want to do with the rest of my life. I dropped out of college. I need to get my ass in gear. Find something I love that I can stand to do.

When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said Ariel the princess. Clearly, that isn't an option (yet). When they asked every year of my high school career, each year was something different. The first year, marine biology. Second year, CNA. Third year, I didn't say anything. My senior year, they asked multiple times.

 What do you want to be?

What do you want to do?

What are you going to college for?

What college are you going to?

You ARE going to college, right?

Midway through senior year, I told my two favorite teachers in casual conversation that I wanted to be Everything. I didn't want a set career, that went against my personality. I love change. I love adapting. I love learning how to do new things. Sticking to one career for the rest of my life sounded so boring, so closed off and in changing that it made me want to pull my hair out. 

  

And then it was February. I miscarried.

And I was hit by this wave of wanting to be surrounded by what I'd lost.

To redeem myself for not being careful. I applied for colleges to be a prenatal nurse. 

Turns out I couldn't handle it.

After a few days (months) of deliberation, I've turned in my two weeks at my housekeeping job. I'm going to a career couselor to find out information on nursing classes. I'm going to be a certified nurse.

Time to stop working at a dead end job. Time to start working towards a future. 

M Is For

On a cold mid February day in 2013, I was snowed into my moms house with my three sisters, my sister Al's  friend Cait, my nephew Jaden, my Mom and Dad, and 32 baby chicks with no power, heat or running water. 

At this point in my life, I was working in a nursing home as a CNA full time while going to school. It was my senior year and I was trying to be everywhere at once. I'd noticed I was sleeping a lot, and according to mom I was "shoveling down food", but I didn't really think about it. 

That day, I woke up feeling cramps. These weren't just cramps. This felt like I was being stabbed multiple times in the uterus. I remember at one point I actually gasped because it hurt so much.  I was so sore I could hardly walk.  My mom took pity on me and gave me half of a Vicodin. 

We were all curled up on cots reading or sleeping, trying to stay warm. It was then that I started bleeding. At first I was really confused. Yeah, I was cramping, but usually when I was on my period I didn't bleed until a day later. It wasn't until I'd gone through two pads in an hour that my mom laid me on my back and pushed on my lower stomach and very shakily asked me when my last period was. It was early December. She asked me if I was pregnant. I responded with "No. Not that I know of." 

She didn't have a reaction. She went outside to the grill (that's how we were making our food), returned with a cup of coffee and told me to stay laying down, while she got more pads and bottles of water. She looked at me sadly "Deebug...I think you're having a miscarriage."

My mind spun. No way. Not possible. I couldn't be pregnant. Not me. We're careful. We use condoms, I'm on birth control.... Oh my god, I'm on birth control. I've been taking it this whole time. This is my fault. Curtis will never forgive me. 

The bleeding eventually lessened and then stopped all together. My mom told me she'd take me to the doctor when weather wa permitting. Almost two weeks after, we went to our family doctor. She confirmed that I did in fact have a miscarriage. She estimated that I had been between seven to eight weeks pregnant. 

 

Honestly, I don't remember anything she said after that. I was in a fog. This was real. This was my fault. I didn't tell Curtis. I was so ashamed. I didn't want him to hate me- I hated me enough for the both of us.  I didn't want to tell him at all. I didn't know I was pregnant. Had I actually carried to term, I could've tried out for that reality show on TLC. I kept it to myself for a month. My mental and emotional health went downhill, and Curtis reached his breaking point. He knew something was wrong, but having a girlfriend that won't express anything is impossible to communicate with. After a few explosive fights, he told me he was done unless I explained. I broke down. I cried and cried and cried some more. He told me he loved me, he didn't blame me, it was okay. 

He will occasionally bring it up in arguments. It stings like he'd slapped me in the face. But I understand why. It was a slap for him too. I should've told him about it. 

It's been two years, and we are in the midst of a baby boom. I act excited for all of the expectant mothers around me, but I still feel a sliver of jealousy. Whether we were ready or not, we would be parents right now if I'd paid more attention and was more careful. 

 And, readers...the strangest thing happened. 

Two days after we moved into our house, I dreamt I was visiting my mom at her house. I walk into her lime green kitchen, I can smell the lavender oil she loves to smell, and on the floor, there's a little boy I've never seen before in my life. I look at my mother, "Mom, who is that?" 

 She just smiles and softly says "Baby, just talk to him." 

 Hesitantly, I walk over and sit down. This boy is small, probably still a toddler. As I sit down, I'm stricken with awe. He looks just like Curtis. Defined cheeks, light freckles, black hair and blue/green eyes. I asked "Hi there. What's your name?" "Micah. Micah Reed."

Micah Reed. "That's a nice name."

"Daddy picked it." 

At that point, I got chills. And then, the impulse to ask came...and I couldn't stop it.

"Who are you?"

 "You know who I am, Mommy."

Oh my god. It's him. It's him. It's the baby. 

"You're here. "

"I'm here. I thought it was time we talk. "

"Oh."

"It's not your fault, Mommy. I wasn't ready. You weren't ready."

"Oh my god." 

"I love you Mommy. It's time to wake up."

I woke up to my alarm, tears rolling down my face. That was my baby. He was beautiful, healthy. He was perfect. I may not be able to hold him now, but I can hold him in Heaven. My Micah Reed. 

That's about all I can handle with this entry. I honestly had to stop and restart at a later time. Thank you for reading. I'll write again soon.

Sincerely yours,

D

R Is For Rant

Reader(s),

We've established already that this blog is far from formal. The sentences are choppy, the grammar is sketchy, the content is dull and repetitive. The only person that reads these posts are my best friend abroad, Mary. (Hi Marebear!) Because this blog is so informal, I can spew a long rant and no one can judge me for it. Ready? Here we go.

I've decided after a year and a quarter, I am terminating any hopes to mend the bond between my cousin Katherine and I.

 (We're the weirdos in the middle of the back row, this picture was taken four years ago.)
Katherine is a Type A personality. She's determined. Set in her ways. She's never wrong. And she is the biggest bitch I know. I used to love all of these things about her. They made me feel safe, defended. She was the driving force that kept my limp body upright. My backbone in a lot of ways. I love all sides of her personality. This was before I had any experience with them. To give her credit, the problems started after I chose Curtis over her. Curtis became the Earth I revolved around and she was a star I saw in passing. And so, after a year of me bending over backwards to make her happy and her conveniently stepping in and aggressively out of my life to hurt me, I've decided. I'm done. I've driven myself half crazy trying to fix anything I could, and all that accomplished was nothing. No more questioning wht the fuck I did wrong, what the fuck is wrong with me. No more appeasing her and telling Curtis to stay away from family gatherings because "it makes her upset". I don't care anymore. No more.  No more "Peanut and Choppy". No more "Dee and KK". It's over. She can talk to or visit my friends and siblings as much as she likes, it's a free country. But she is nothing but a distant family member to me. I'm not investing time in a rotting corpse of a relationship. 

I'm tired. I'm very, very tired. Between my two jobs I've been putting in more than fifty hours a week. With a day off in between. I think I wouldn't mind it as much if I felt like I was actually accomplishing something. But I'm a janitor. I clean up messes all day and I come back not twelve minutes later, and it looks like I didn't do anything at all. That is so incredibly frustrating to me. Everyone says "Then just quit, quit complaining. You're still doing it so it can't be that bad. " And they're right. It isn't that bad. I am complaining. But I can't afford to quit. Not with rent, insurances, utilities, and a medical bill I'm still trying to pay off, not including my cost of living. 

I miss Mary. I'm so stressed out about the stuff going on, and she's the only person I want to talk to about it all.  We were supposed to FaceTime today but I got out of work almost twenty minutes late, and then went to Walmart with my grandma.

Being six hours behind her, knowing she's got a busy day Thursday, I didn't want to bother her when she was getting ready for bed. She's stressing out too, I know. Missing her family, dogs, and boyfriend like crazy. I'm up there too. I wear our BFF necklaces so much, the paint has worn off.

 

I'm debating on whether to send her one of her birthday presents or not. I feel like she needs a big box of "home" sent to her. Does that make sense?   

Thats my rant for the evening. Thanks for tuning in. I'll see you in the next one.

Sincerely, 

Dee

Valentines Day

Dear Reader(s),

Happy Valentines Day! I hope you all have a fabulous day and you spend it surrounded by people you love, or how I will be spending it- watching Netflix and eating pizza and then going to work.  

I talked to my best friend today, and seeing her relationship take off the way it has warms the cockles of my heart tremendously. I wish they could be together for Valentines Day, but I know they'll make up for lost time when they both get home. 

Curtis and I have been together five years , and decided that from now on we eat Valentines dinner the night before and spend the actual holiday at home snuggling and stuff away from everyone else. 

I think that kinda proves how introverted we are. People make us- or make me, at least- SUPER uncomfortable. And I still don't really know why that is. I'm just more comfortable alone in my room. 

Meh. Regardless. Have a great day! 

Sincerely,

D

T is for Tat

Dear Reader(s),

As many of you read in my last post, I lost a very dear friend of mine a day short from a month ago. I would be lying if I told you I've come to terms with it. I still wake up expecting a text or new snap from her asking what I'm up to. 

 The day after she passed, I came up with an idea for a tattoo. Having the pain tolerance of a guppy and lack of funds for such things, I'd ruled tattoos out of the question. But that night, I saw a quote that just stuck with me. It stuck itself to me like a needle to a thumb and I couldn't shake the feeling it gave me. 

It felt like the answer to the hardest question there is to answer- why do the best people die? 

A week after I saw the quote, I went to my friend Devin Warren, who has been a licensed tattoo artist for over ten years. I asked if he'd do it, put down a $20 deposit, and set the date. February 7,2015 I'd have a physical representation of Lee with me forever. 

My appointment was at eight o'clock, so naturally I got ready at five thirty. Shaved my legs, blow dried and straightened my hair, makeup. I purposefully skipped mascara. I didn't want it to run all over the place in case I started to cry. I told Curtis I wanted him with me and though he is completely against tattoos, he agreed to come along.

When we got to The Zone, Devin told us the printer they normally use for scripts was broken, so he had to write everything out by hand. I didn't mind, jut meant it had more time put into it. 

We got started at 9:00 p.m. Devin started with the lettering, which was the easiest part of the tattoo pain wise. To me, the lettering process felt like when your hand falls asleep and someone pinches you to wake it up- it tingles and is a little uncomfortable, but not awful. 

Next, Devin did the outlines for the borders. Again, it felt like a numb hand- until he hit my shin. As soon as that needle went over my shin, I had the hugest urge to jump out of my chair. The bak of my elf was nowhere near as awful as the shin. I was really uncomfortable at this point and needed a distraction, so I facetimed my little sister Alex. I would've facetimed my best friend Mary, but it was close to 3:30 a.m. her time, so that was obviously a no go. 

After letting me take a break so I could walk around, it was time for shading. 

To those of you that have tattoos, you understand. To those that don't, shading is when the tattoo artist goes in and fills all of the blank space with shadows and color. Remember earlier whenever I was talking about tingling? Shading doesn't tingle. Shading feels exactly like what it is- a series of little needles scribbling across your skin over and over and over. You body naturally starts to swell a little, and the tattoo artist has to go back over the swollen parts to fill in the blanks. The shin felt nowhere near as bad as the back of my leg.Oh my lord. At one point, I asked Devin if we could just stop. It felt that awful. 

At eleven thirty, it was done.  My quote, with three forget-me-not blooms around it with swirly borders. It's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I bought tattoo goo, which I apply three to four times a day to help it heal. It comes in a little circular tin, looks like green grapes and smells very strongly of lavender.

I love it. I love the swirls of the letters and the baby blue in the flowers. I love it and I loved her. 

I'll speak to you again soon guys. 

Sincerely,

D