Eff Everything Else.

It hurts my heart to heart them cry; I think being a mom is what makes it feel like my heart is being scooped from my chest with icy talons when they do it. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I sit cross legged on the floor in the kids room at midnight. Otherwise I'd have sided with Steven and let them cry themselves to sleep.

"It's not that big of a deal Roze."

Steven has Mathew in his arms - chubby little face pressed against his chest. He's kind of bouncing him with a hand cupping Mathew's head tenderly. I know because I paused on him for a second or two.

OK maybe a minute.

"Take a breath sweetie." I inhale deeply, slowly, then blow out while rubbing Reyna's back trying to coax her into breathing. "No!" As she screams spit comes flying out and she rubs her snotty nose on my thigh. "Hey. I am here to help you but you don't get to yell at me because it makes me really sad." I twist my fingers through the mice in her hair while she soaks my yoga pants with tears because I refuse to let her sleep in my room.

"I'm going to get water. Do you want water Reyna?" Steven sets Mathew down, ties a blanket around his shoulders, and crouches by Reyna.

"No!"

"Just go. Reyna I told you I didn't like it when you yelled." I keep trying to be nice and loving and *there* because that's what you're supposed to do. I comb the brown and blue curls back from the wet face it's stuck to, I hold her in my arms and sing, we breathe, I tell her I love her and still she cries.

"OK Reyna." I pull back, slowly climb to my feet as she grabs handfuls of fabric - clinging to my legs. "I'm going to put you in bed, you're going to stay there and sleep because you're a big girl. I love you. Goodnight."

Mathew blows a kiss from the distance; still sitting with an imaginary cape tied majestically around his shoulders. Joey sleeps like an ocean with his face pressed into the pink sheets.

Reyna star fishes across her firetruck bed with an arm over her face - crying dramatically into her skin.

"I love you," I repeat.

Closing the door I felt like the worst mom in the history of Earth because I couldn't manage to soothe my own child. I stopped outside the door; sort of sunk into the wood while I listened. Damnit I'd wanted that to work. I'd had a plan for my parenting and it didn't include feeling my heart constrict with demonic strength every time I had to put my kids to bed - so roughly 9 times a night.

By the time I'd finished comparing myself to the dredges of humanity she'd stopped crying and I felt ridiculous. Things rarely ever go like we plan and that's OK. Derailing from the to-do lists scattered around my table, phone, and head just means I have kids - nothing more.

Sometimes when I go grocery shopping my kids will act like twochbags or threenagers. Sometimes my 9 year old will cry when I tell her to clean her room and sometimes she'll do a set of dishes, play with her siblings, pick up her room, and tell me she loves me.

None of those sceneries mean I failed as a mother.

None.

As long as I love my children and I'm doing the best I can to turn them into productive caring adults then I'm doing great.

Fuck everything else.

Of Course I Think About It

My husband is mad at me.

"They knew; they knew and you didn't tell me?!" I don't think he's ever yelled at me before. I'm uncomfortable in my seat - the brown microfiber scratching into my skin. "Why wouldn't you tell me? I would have been screaming at the doctor's and demanding to talk to their lawyer, what the fuck Roze!"

It didn't occur to me.
"It didn't occur to me."
I just didn't think it mattered.
"I just didn't think it mattered."

I twitch my legs again because this stupid couch suddenly itches so much it hurts. I pick at my nails, or try to really because I've already picked so much there's hardly any skin left around them. "You told them..." "I told them."

"What if they do it to someone else?" That though hurts my heart. People always say that, that their heart hurts, but it's not that simple. It's like fingers digging into the fibers of my heart and constricting. It's bricks pressed against my chest so roughly it feels like I can't expand my lungs enough to breathe. It's wet and cold skin; sticky skin that pulls underneath the tips of my fingers when I drag them across my arms to hold myself. Because... I guess I never thought about it like that. Or maybe I just never really thought about it period.

The fact that I told them I could feel everything before we even entered the OR was irrelevant because I suffered through a repeat c-section while feeling every tiny bit. That I said it more than once didn't matter. It didn't matter that I said it again before they started. It didn't matter because I had so much more to focus on.

"Roze!?"

My eyes refocus then blur again; though this time it was tears biting at the corner of my eyes and not memories. I bend my lips upwards. It wasn't so much a smile as a macabre play of one across my lips. "I'm here."

"We could sue Roze. Roze.."

Do you believe I don't understand that? I think about it every time I barely attend doctor appointments because the thought of doctors makes my head light. I thought of it when I cried through my entire x-ray because the lights reminded me too much of lying on that table; strapped down and jerking against the ties across my thighs. I definitely thought about it when I almost skipped my spinal because I was breathing so fast and hard that I couldn't breathe. I think about it everytime I have to skip over television episodes that send me spiraling back. I think about it every single fucking day. I think about it.

"I know."
It just didn't occur to me.
"Amidst everything else that happened during.."
Feeling them slice and rip my skin apart like thickened paper. So much fucking paper.
"That what happened before would matter."

He left for work then. I stayed home shifting against the itchy couch and willing myself to keep breathing. If I just breathe eventually even my worst nightmares will end.

They have to, right?

Please, just let me go.

Usually I flip out of depression pretty quickly - that's the "beauty" of borderline personality disorder as opposed to it's sister cousin bipolar. I switch between depression and mania within days rather than weeks. While it's frustrating and I'd never wish it on anyone, it's always nice knowing I can climb up from this home of depression; I know it won't be forever.

So why won't it go away this this time?


I rub the silk of my skin: that crease in between my hips and belly, and muse. I don't want to be depressed. My fingers find the mole on my hip that sticks up just a little bit past my body. I can't stand it. It's an imperfection that's not attributed to anything good.

It's nothing.

I'm nothing.

I shake my head - un-brushed curls fall into my eyes but I don't bother moving them. Why can't I escape this? Clawing my way out is never easy, it's always a battle, but I manage it. I've hit the three week mark and my mind shows zero signs of cooperation.

Why? It's not like it normally is. I can't answer the door, I can't go outside, I can't drive my car, I can't do anything without this overwhelming feeling of anxiety straining against my chest. My heart actually hurts. I can't even wrap my brain around how much I want to hang on my husband when normally I can't stand to be touched. 

Speaking of...

I lean back just an inch so I can feel his side against me and relax a fraction but he notices and rolls over wrapping his arm around my stomach, pulling me in flat to his chest. My heart catches and for a second I can't breathe - absolutely not in a good way. My lungs fill with so much air I'm drowning. My arms are shaking so badly I can't manage to push him off of me even though I'm trying as hard as I think I can. 

Panic has completely and utterly liquefied my brain. 

I'm pretty sure I'm motionless underneath his arm and against his chest - terror left me with nothing. Tears are falling in rivers down my cheeks and pooling on the mattress underneath me but I can't manage a single sound. Nothing. My mind is on auto; memories and futures running before my eyelids like silent film I can't stop. I keep closing my eyes and shaking my head, trying to ground myself in the reality of where I am but where I am is stuck and imprisoned and drowning and nothing is taking it away. 

So I lay here realizing exactly why I'm stuck in this hole of depression, unable to claw my way out, trapped inside a prison of my own comfort. My body begins shaking and I'm breathing so heavy and quick I barely finish one before I start another. I never really understood the term gasping for air until now.

"I know, ok, I know! It was my fault. It shouldn't be a big deal but it is, it just fucking is!"

My screaming snaps him awake - scares him really - and he tightens his grip which terrifies me. No longer in anything close to control I I push against him with everything; my feet, my hands. I slap at his arms and beg him to let me go. 

Please, just let me go.

He relents. 

Once free I can actually feel my body lightening. My pulse begins to slow and even though I'm still rubbing the tips of my thumbs and fingers together anxiously my chest has stopped pounding so hard. My breathing returns to normal as I sit on the edge of the bed; it finally makes sense. 

"Roze, what are you talking about?"

"I was raped 9 years ago and it was my fault. Why won't it go away?"

My voice catches and once again I'm sobbing - only this time I fall into his chest face first and relax into him when his arms wrap around my back. He rests his chin against my forehead and pulls a blanket over us both while I snuggle deep into his side and try to catch my tears before they fall. 

"Because you've finally admitted it." 

Panic On The Other Side.

My husband has no idea that I'm lying behind him crying - none. He has headphones on so he can easily hear his team speak online and I always have a fan running right next to me. Still, I bury my face into the thick blanket bunched up under my arms to conceal any sound I might possibly make because I don't want him to know.

When did a game become more important than myself?

Tears sting my eyes and scratch at my throat like nails. It feels like tiny humans live inside me and the only way they can escape the hell that is my body is by digging their fingernails into my throat and climbing; yet they keep falling and scraping as they go. Punishment for failing I suppose.

I can hear him speak which means his mic is active so I try to control my breathing enough that it won't get picked up. It shouldn't either way. After all, it's a professional mic. He bought it for me almost a year ago and I've still never used it because I'm too much of a coward to try recording myself. A sob escapes my clenched lips so I stuff the blankets over my face again struggling to calm down.

Don't panic. I can't panic. I won't panic.

I will not destroy his game.

The blanket becomes too hot so I push it away and stare mindlessly at my arm while tears fall slowly down my cheeks making rivers and pathways that get diverted. I can taste them on the corners of my lips and it disgusts me. I feel pathetic and weak.I want so badly to cut myself that I can feel the scissors beneath my fingers: I can see my skin splitting and blood slowly welling up from the edges. It's a temptation I've been resisting for months. I shake my head and repeat "no" over and over and over to myself like a mantra, like that'll keep me from running into the other room and grabbing them from on top of the mirror and slashing them across my wrist.


I am not important. 

I'm trying so desperately to stop any flashbacks from completely taking me over that I'm shaking. The blanket is wet from my tears and sticking to my face, my breath is so hot it's suffocating, and panic starts to grip my soul anyway. It's like these leeching fingers hold onto my insides and peel away parts of me until I just can't fight anymore, until there's nothing but raw and empty emotion left. I'm nothing but this husk of instinct and currently it's screaming at me to run. 

So I do. 

With zero hesitation I throw the blanket off, barely choke back a sob, and escape to the bathroom down the hall. I slam the door shut. Spinning the knob so the air kicks on and muffles any noise I simultaneously twist the lock and double check it so he can't come in just in case he noticed my extremely hasty retreat. I turn the light on for a second but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In disgust I quickly slam the switch back down so that I'm swallowed in darkness.

I collapse against the door. 

My recently dislocated knee doesn't allow me to drop to them so I'm left standing with my face pressed against the wood feeling the grains rub into my forehead as I repetitively move back and forth while tears stream into my mouth. My hands are pressed into the door while waves of memories fuck me. I can't turn on the light, I just can't. But I can feel hands touching me and shoving into me. I can feel people watching me. Shame. Disgust. Hatred. 

There's a ball of weakness and pain that's living inside my ribs trying to break them to get out but I shove closer against the door and cry harder - convincing myself I don't need to cut. I can do this without it. I can do this without him. My breathing picks up. It's too much. It's all too much and I'm pushing further into the door to get away from nothing while the wood begins to hurt my face. I'm hyperventilating now. In and out. In and out so fast It's not dark in this room anymore and I'm barely crying. 

I'm leaning against the door because I can't stand; my legs are too weak. I'm too weak. I'm disgusting and weak and worthless. Hands. Hands again. I recoil. I pull my shoulder up so fast it slams into the door hard enough to bruise and my breathing catches. 

When did his game become more important than my life? 

Why am I in this bathroom screaming into my head and trying desperately not to make a sound because I'm too terrified that I'll disturb him? I sob around all the breaths that are making me nauseous and struggle to stop. This is on me. This is me. This is my fault. This is my panic. This is my attack. This is ME. I hold my breath until I can't anymore while my hands shake so hard that I can't keep them still on the door then I hold it again. 

I keep holding my breath until I can finally breathe normally, until the tears have dried against my face, and my hands have stilled on the bathroom door. I want to be a strong woman who can handle anything life and my brain throws at me but it seems that I just can't. 

I can't stop a panic attack, I can't stop an anxiety spiral or PTSD trigger. I can't make myself stop having borderline personality disorder or loathing myself. I just have to weather it and come out on the other side. 

Definition: Me.

I catch a glimpse in the mirror when I walk past and cringe - sigh. I pull my shirt down trying to cover my stomach, tug on my underwear so they cover my belly as much as possible; as if that'll make it disappear and with it every single insecurity that lives inside my skin.

I don't know, maybe. 

I twist to the side, then left - stumble over a toy that's careening across the hardwood and into my ankles - before finally resigning myself to the fact that no matter how much I contort my fucking body in front of this useless (smudged) mirror I'm never going to actually look attractive.  

Before I really think about it I take a picture; selfie culture right? In my head It's going to come out looking amazing: great lighting even though there's not a single light in my living room, no stretch marks even though I've had 4 children, my fat won't be visible because angles obviously, and I'm just going to look fucking beautiful because pictures always look better than mirrors. 

Until they don't. 

Until it doesn't.

Until I'm staring at this reflection of who I am unable to breathe past the pain and "reality".

The first thing I notice are scars: straight lines across the side of my stomach.

Self-inflicted bullshit.

I wish I could carve them off or tattoo over them so I never have to look at them. When I do it's like my chest has been cut open and fingers are prying my ribs apart piece by piece just to poke at my heart until I can't breathe.

And the stretch marks, so many stretch marks across this giant stomach that carried 4 children. Is that an excuse? How dare I make a fucking excuse! Careful, remember to breathe. In and out right?  Every time I see them my chest gets so tight I can't exhale and my skin crawls until I have to move just to keep still... 

I stare at this stupid picture for minutes while it blurs underneath my scrutiny and the tears I'm holding back with so much force my throat is raw. 

I just cave.

I crumble.

I give up.

I preach self love to every single person I run across. I beat it into my children so hard I'm pretty sure I'm raising egomaniacs. So why can't I even like myself? For just one tiny second.

I should look at this picture and see strength not weakness. Those scars are a fucking victory - a reminder that I survived more than I should have. My stretch marks are life. They are literally fucking life so how can I judge them? 

I'm standing in this picture taking care of my kids and my husband even though I'm on day 9 of a migraine that's making my face numb.

I can't feel parts of my legs and back and stomach because of my spina bifida surgery and two c sections but I'm standing. 

My hips still pop out of place and make me fall randomly from carrying so many children at once in so quick succession but I fucking mother. 

My thyroid cycles back and forth to the point of such physical exhaustion that I'm literally dragging my legs praying I make it to my bed before I crash yet I am still up when I hear them call.

Even the smallest of touches hurts me but my kids use my body like a fucking jungle gym and I take it with cringed smile because they laugh.

None of that shows up in this picture because this picture doesn't define me.

I fucking define me.

So here it is; a completely unfiltered and unedited version of me. And, in reality, it's pretty damned bad ass. 

Am I Raising My Kids To Be Too Strong?

I'm pretty sure I'm raising my kids to be too strong and independent. Aside from making it difficult on myself (seriously, have you ever tried to convince a strong willed child to do something?) sometimes I worry it's hurting them. Sure it'll be beneficial in the long run which is kind of the point but currently it's causing nothing but pain for my amazing gorgeous 9 year old.

My end goal is giving her the confidence to be herself regardless of everyone else; to feel comfortable enough to say no to anything and not be pressured into any decision, to fucking love herself.

100% of the time.

I worry that my inability to have that confidence and love has pushed me to force too much on her. I'm terrified she'll some day be convinced to do something she knows is wrong or doesn't want to do because she doesn't have the confidence and strength to say no. So, I've devoted my life to making sure that doesn't happen. Only now I'm afraid I was too successful.

That's a weird thing to worry about, I know. "I've done too well giving my daughter the confidence to be herself regardless of who does or doesn't approve" boo hoo.

But, she's having a really hard time in school purely because she won't submit to what certain kids think she should be. Her hair is stupid, (I'm pretty sure they're mispronouncing awesome) she's stupid, dogs are dumb, she can't draw, "ugh Lindzy is here, again." She likes to pretend she's a dog sometimes and loves drawing them. We've even been watching YouTube tutorials and learning random things for an hour every single night lately just so she can improve.

Wouldn't it be easier to just give in? To pretend like she doesn't enjoy dogs? Easier to just.... Fit in.

But she refuses. "No one can change who I am except me." I nearly applauded her and cried simultaneously when she said that. This is literally what I've been working so hard to achieve. But, at what cost?

Before moving here she was bullied to the point of tears every single day. She begged me not to send her to school and wanted to be home schooled instead. She gave up telling teachers about the abuse after being told it "wasn't a big problem" and to "ignore it" and just kind of deflated. She went from being a child who was extremely passionate about learning and school and new experiences to a person that just wanted to sit inside alone all the time.

I kept telling her this boy's opinion didn't opinion matter. His friends didn't matter. What he thought didn't matter. That the words he spewed for hours every single day in her face meant nothing because she knew who she was: someone strong and beautiful and capable and perfect and weird and amazing.

Now she's just a little timid. She's still herself but she's terrified and anxious that around every corner another person is going to be standing there ready to degrade her again.

Is her strong will and confidence hurting her? I'm pretty sure it is. I'm pretty sure I'm raising her to be too strong and independent. If she gave in and stopped drawing dogs and wolves (extremely well) then maybe she could make an extra friend and she wouldn't be bullied.

But, she'd also lose a piece of her soul. She'd lose what makes her so freaking happy. She'd lose what makes her unique. She wouldn't be her anymore.

This strong and confident 9 year old girl makes me so proud. I know that she's going to be herself no matter what. I believe she'll keep sticking up for people who are getting bullied. I am confident she'll never be talked into anything she thinks is a bad idea because she doesn't care. She doesn't care what other people think is the correct response or fashionable or the appropriate thing to like. She's going to make her own choices and as much as it hurts me to watch her get made fun of currently I will never tell her to let go of herself to please others. Instead I will embrace and celebrate the crazy independent strong child I have raised.

"We aren't RUDE in this house. That's my sister, stop it!" 

It's Not Like I Was Raped

It's not like I was raped.

It's not. I told him yes. I let him have sex with me. So, why am I flashing back to that moment and panicking so much I can't even make love to my husband?

I can't breathe; my chest is too tight, my skin is crawling like bugs live underneath it and my throat hurts from trying not to scream.

Razors.
It feels like razors.
Or maybe knives. 
Nails. 
Nails digging into my trachea and trying to crawl from my mouth and spill this scream that's lodged inside.

My body is treacherous.
My mind betrays me.

Why? Why now, why this moment? Why at all?

I can't help it anymore and I pull back, struggling to breathe, even though I'm breathing so much my head begins to float. I shove against him so hard it hurts my wrists and scratch mindlessly at my chest like I can open it up to make the air come easier, only it doesn't.  

I can hear him asking what's wrong, what he's done, what he can do. I can feel him touching me but every time he touches me it hurts. My skin is too sensitive. Or, maybe, it's my nerves that are too sensitive and scraping at my insides when I feel his fingers on me.

It's just too much.

It's not like I was raped.

I gave permission for him to take me on the dirty bathroom floor of a drug house. I said it was OK for my first time to be a 28 year old man right after graduation. I found him thoughtful because he held my head so it wouldn't smack into the heater. 

The voices in my head cover every sound and my body shakes so much my teeth hurt. He asks me to talk, to just please explain and I can hear the terror in his voice. He's afraid he's hurt me.

I just shake my head.

"It's not like I was raped."

"Weren't you?"

I adamantly shake my head watching as tears drip down my cheeks onto the black sheets. I bunch them under my fingers - twist them, pinch, then resort to scratching my arm. I dig my nails in until it's unbearable and scratch the length of my forearm while he wraps himself around me, holding me still, forcing me to stop. 

I struggle. 

"No." My voice breaks in half; the weight of my shame too much to handle. "I was high. I was drunk. I knew better and I did it." I crack; glass breaking from the strength of everything pressing against it, shattering into pieces on our bed. "It was me!" I screech through a voice that's raspy and tear filled. "It's not like I was raped, why is this even here?!"

He grabs me again, calmly running his fingers over my shoulders and I fight the urge to jerk away because I love it, I love him, but it hurts. "You didn't choose that. You didn't choose any of it. It wasn't your fault."

It wasn't my fault?

I submitted myself this man, this child molester. I allowed him to convince me that losing my virginity on top of dirty socks and empty meth bags was a great idea.That was me.

It's not like I was raped.

What Am I Worth?

For the purposes of this quick (long winded) explanation I'm not even touching on the fact that minimum wage is not enough to live on, it has absolutely no baring on what I'm about to say.

What bothers me about this post is that some random person has decided he (she) has the right to deem a person worthy or unworthy. It's literally the phrasing on this stupid meme that makes me cringe not the stupidity of it.

Who has the authority to choose worth in another person? No one does. No one else gets to decide to that I'm unworthy because of anything let alone a simple fucking MISTAKE.

If I forget to put ketchup on my daughter's salad and she cries and pouts until I figure out what mistake I've made am I any less worthy than I was five minutes ago?

No. No one would ever say that a mistake means a person is unworthy.

So why is a McDonalds worker held to a higher standard?

Do you even know how busy of an hour they can have? 2000$ in McDonalds is a lot of fucking food. So this worker who has been doing hamburgers with ketchup all day for the entire four months he's been working here accidently forgets to NOT PUT KETCHUP on your burger and suddenly he's not worth anything? Really? Really?! That's your standard for worth huh?

What if it was his first day?

Do you go the entire day without making a
Single.
Solitary.
Mistake?

Not one single misstep? If so, fucking congrats to you; you might wanna think about presidency.

The money isn't the point. Minimum wage and people being unable to survive isn't the point. A single mother escaping an abusive husband who just needs one single job to live without being beaten everyday isn't the point. A college student also taking care of the family they didn't plan on isn't the point.

The point is that NO ONE gets to determine another person's worth; especially over something as stupid as ketchup on a fucking 1$ burger.