If you are interested in reading me in the future, please let me know. After the background check, I'll provide you with the link.

Okay, everybody ready?

I am sure a shocking number of you were raised by at least one alcoholic. Sucked, huh? For me, it was my dad. But it was all of us. We were all changed markedly by his addiction. In so many ways. In every way.

The most lasting damage, the stuff that still haunts me today, right now, this very fucking second, was caused by a this seemingly simple dictum, handed down to me by my mom: pretend it isn't happening. Yep. That's it. pretend you don't see it.

And, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I am still doing that, now, right now, this very second, with almost everyone in my life. See, I don't do it to myself. Haven't ever, really. I shine that hard light of my harsh, bitter truths on me. Nothing I do escapes my notice. Except any of the good things. Why focus on the good when there are so many other things to work on, to change, to bemoan, pick at, stab, even distort. Seriously. I do distort any good I do at some time or another. Or some time and another. I can find a flaw anywhere.

But I let the rest of these people fucking skate. I look the other way. I help them with their excuses. Kid gloves. Elephant. Like that.

This might be all well and good if the things I cover for them weren't things that harm me directly. That's the truly fucked-up part of this. I let them hurt me, every day. I smile and wave and profess love and even offer kind words and undying support. How freaking pathological is that?

I know that this was born in my early childhood, but the reasons now aren't the same ones. I have a huge problem with the worthy. My default setting is to feel unworthy.

Lately, though, the happy has been seeping in, slowly. In small amounts, sure, I can feel the happy. A little here, little there, sure, fine, great. But, fuck, I have literally been knocked over with waves of happy, here, and, crap, it sent me into a complete, full-on, full-bodied panic. PANIC!

I panicked. I ran. I ran and panicked. I didn't think I was equipped for happy. Not equipped, and certainly not worthy.

Feeling the happy requires a completely different lifestyle than I have. Not only would I need to allow the feeling parts in, but I would also have to stop reactivating the fucking bullshit parts that can just be dead. At the same time. Okay, impossible. Too much. Way too much.

But it's not. It's not too much. In fact, it's easy. Well, not easy easy. On paper, yes, easy. Making it real, not so much.

It involves seeing. It involves me seeing and me letting other people see, too.

I have spent an enormous chunk of my life protecting the good names of the other people. Bwaha. That is as absurd as it sounds. It is. And just so very much not true or accurate or noble.

I am tired of the kowtowing, the emotional bullying, the people taking advantage of the fact that I remain mum to their flaws, my doormattedness, the back-walking.

And I am going to cut it all the fuck out of my life. If you suck, you suck. I am not doing any more spinning or damage control. Not paying the lip service. You are all on your own, and you'd better watch it. I see you.

So here is what I did:

It was almost 2am.

My five year-old son is wide awake and eating pancakes.

My house is littered with puzzle pieces: letters, numbers, states of the union, toes, fingers, barnyards animals; and

magnets: letters, numbers, holidays, personalized hot vacation spots in the shapes of flamingos and seashells, barnyard animals, nifty photo-magnets of Robbie's head at age zero and age two; and

game pieces: clue, monopoly, chess, checkers, Dora's Chutes and Ladders, Boggle, Scrabble, Perquackey, Trivial Pursuit;

cards, my God, the cards: playing, business, flash cards with letters, numbers, barnyard animals, the sea, the planets, Trivial Pursuit (every edition, ever), Password, Pyramid, old Valentines, Monopoly properties (and money), Life insurance policies (including about thirty R and I made one night), various scorecardpads, paint color cards from Lowe's Meijer, Home Depot; and

Mr. Potato Head & Family body parts and accessories: eyes, noses, ears, mouths, moustaches, hats, shoes, arms, legs, glasses, and handbags.

All of these things are carefully arranged in various locations throughout the house, in little villages of rows, towns of strange groupings of items. Very intricate and undeniably telling of the parts of Robbie's brain I have only ever caught this glimpse of, and unfortunately I am not at all smart enough to understand what any of it means. Like those crop circles, perhaps. But much cooler.

So, here we are, all awake in the middle of your night, with our crazy parts and Stanley's Great Big Book of Adventure, co-existing in our bizarro-world way. Not much to do at this hour. Can't really play outside, what with the social unacceptability and all. So, what do we do? Besides the arranging and the blogging and the holding out hope for sleep?

Well, we work on my phobia.

My Never-Take-the-Child-to-the-Grocery-Store-in-the-Middle -of-Our-Night phobia. It is so unseemly. So white trashy. So just not done.

Guess what? We did it! Ha! And we did not die and the police did not show up with Child Services in tow and no one stared. Okay, everyone stared. But I am pretending that is because I wore my Fancy New Vans. And because Robbie and I are oh-so-very cute. Whatever. We did it. We are edge-dwellers.

Edge-dwellers! Can you beat that? Hardly. Not you.

It really helped with the crapathy. Just mixing it up, doing the just not done. Heh.

We are totally badasses. Edge-dwellers *and* badasses. If we are still up in a couple of hours, we are so going to a bakery or something. I wonder if we have a bakery?

Wow. This is all so very random. I was going to write about how I have been doing things lately that make other people feel weird. Seriously. Like three different people have told me that. Just today. But they are things that feel pretty normal to me. So, I am not sure, for one, if any of the things are related, or, B., if I should worry much about making other people feel weird?

I like these people. Very much. But. Am I responsible for the weird?

You know, in the car on the way home from our local grocer's, I had this part all worked out and it sounded interesting and thought-provoking. Not so much now. Not provoking any thoughts. I think I blew my load back there with the pieces and parts and noses. And, oh God, the cards.

Did Mr. Potato Head's Wife have a handbag when we were kids? By we, I mean all of the late thirties people. Not you youngsters. I don't remember a handbag.

And, by the way, this is Diagnosis Week. R will be diagnosed, on Friday, with the pdd-nos, otherwise known specifically as, eh, your son is odd, but he doesn't fit any of our Categories of Regular Oddnesses, so we'll call it this. It will be official, I suppose. Bring on the free services and schooling suggestions, Chrildrens' Hospital Team of Experts! I imagine I shall do quite a bit of nervous-energy blogging.

(There is another fresh entry below. I wouldn't want anyone to miss out in the excitement of reading this one! Pace yourself!)

Yes! Yes, I have been sober for eight years. EIGHT YEARS. And some change. A few spare weeks that don't add up to a whole number that makes it sound longer. So, yeah, just the eight years.

Honestly. Honestly, I don't miss the drinking. At all. The drinking symbolizes for me chaos. Pure, utter, despairingly black, hopeless, crazy chaos. I am simply not that me any more. And it is that simple, for me.

But. But there are times when I do wish I had something I could do or take or ingest to remove the rough edges from the panorama of my existence. Or somewhere to go. Someone to see. An oasis in my arid planes.

I know. I know I am not alone. But I am. I actually am. Physically. I am alone in this house with Robbie. I always am alone in this house with Robbie, and it is always 2:16am.

Sure. Sure, I have friend and Chris and my mom. They love me. They often even offer me support over the telephone when I ring them. And if I ask, they would come.

No. No, I have decided no. Not to have them come. I need to get used to this life. To be able to deal with this life and what it entails and its aridness and sharp panoramic edges.

I do okay. I do okay with Robbie and the grilled cheese sandwiches and the Valerian Root. I am coping with the attempts and failures at repairing the slipped sleeping cycle.

More than anything. More than anything, though, I long to have something to take my mind off of the things. Somewhere I can relax and forget why my shoulders are tensed up into my earlobes. Somewhere to breathe. And laugh. Something that makes the world seem to shine like I've had too much wine but not actually have to have any wine because I don't drink.

And, uh-uh. And, uh-uh, not talking about falling in love. I just couldn't not write that shiny world bit. Though, I suppose that would be fun. Would be nice to have someone around providing the goosebumps and kind words. I am not holding my breath. Getting to know someone well enough for the love is as bad as starting therapy again.

Too many stories. Too many stories to tell and too much rehashing of the stuff and the things. I am soured on that. No rehashing. And the love people always want something from me. They have their expectations and their needs for everything to be far too real for my liking. My life is already too real.

I want to pretend. I want to pretend that hope is all that is necessary for happiness. Pretend that tomorrow will be a joyous day. Things will happen, sights will be seen and laughter heard and the running and skipping and leaping through the air. Meadows, streams, fluffy clouds, wispy winds.

Giggling. Giggling is the best-feeling, most buoyantly glorious, life-affirming state of being. More like this.

Now, Robbie. Now, Robbie, he giggles. He is quite the giggler. I giggle, too, whenever he giggles, but I rarely know why. And I believe that knowing why Robbie giggles is the key to the secrets of the Universe. I feel so left-out, but I giggle, too, anyway, because, really, there is no way to not giggle at the sound of Robbie giggling.

I was saying. I was saying that my life is too real. Too jabby. I need more fanciful places and people. I do. I am tired of the normal everydayedness of the days.

I will have to. I will have to do it myself. For myself. For myself and Robbie's self. I think I am going to buy brightly colored papers and whimsical dancing fabrics and springy strings of glitzy garland and we'll decorate the house like a fairytale. Or a calcium supplements commercial. Mom needs her extra calcium so she doesn't die before enjoying junior's wacky, crafty antics.

Yes! Yes, I will just go ahead and be that pesky change I want in my world. We'll wear silly hats and everything.

Crap. Crap, how I hate it when those trite, throwaway, sappy sentiments are right. But they are, you know. Cannot become a cliche without truth in there, somewhere.

The truth. The truth is always in there, somewhere. And, even though it might be gritty, it's probably nothing a Hobby Lobby gift certificate and being awake in the daytime hours can't fix. I guess that might be all I need. And maybe some Valium.

robbie was watching the lottery number drawing.
he was so interested--
the popping balls, the spangly, fancy lady with the bright red lips, the numbers.
oh, the NUMBERS!
so, i jotted them down, and then i wrote each one on a different slip of paper.
i handed the slips to robbie.
he arranged them in the right order--
the pick three, the pick four, and the pick five.
he memorized the order of the three strings of numbers,
in just seconds:
5, 3, 8--
9, 5, 1, 3--
34, 17, 21, 37, 12.
clearly, he is a freaking genius.

I am feeling defeated. Defeatable.

Like, I have been dropped in a jungle, completely alone, save my Bushmen Guide, Robbie, who speaks a different language and observes different customs. And I have nothing but my gumption and wiles to shield us from the harm, as I am the protector.

---
But I am not meshing with him today, this week. We have the brief fits of coming together for physical reassurances, then we go our separate ways.

And sometimes that feels like failure. It feels beyond sad, beyond crying. Beyond anyone helping me.

---
Often I think the others here would just as soon run away from this, take a different path and not look back. It's like they are distancing themselves from themselves, though. From that childlike part buried deep inside that only wants to be understood. Because it's all so very raw. And the rawness has big, blue eyes that can see everything, unwaveringly.

I have something in me that keeps me rooted here. I cannot stray. I would not. I couldn't. I am here for the long haul. It's my place, too, just as much as it is Robbie's.

---
We were painted with the same brush. We are each other as much as we are ourselves.

Man. I am stuck in some sort of negative phase or cycle or otherwise organized crapfest. I can't read. I can't write. My days feel like they are filled with nothing much at all. I am not giving R the quality time he deserves. I am really, really sucking at pretty much everything.

And I sort of have the apathy, too. I just don't care enough to fix me. Doesn't feel good. Generally, I am all about fixing me.

I have been weird, too. Even for me. Extra weird. I am doing things I can't explain, things I wouldn't normally do. Makes me scratch my head and squint at myself.

Who am I?

I really did mean what I said in that last post, that I am not going to hold all of the stuff in any more. Certainly, that does not involve being abusive to anyone or saying anything unkind, nothing of that sort. You all know I am the people-pleasiest person around. Or you should know. Pay attention!

Maybe that's part of it. I am not comfortable or happy being doormatty. I do not like allowing myself to be treated in ways that do not feel good. Maybe I'm just starting there.

Oh, wow. It would be so cool if that's what this is. An awkward start to taking back, um, me. It's possible.

It's possible the things I am doing that are things I just don't do are steps in the right direction. And the apathy could just be me not caring what the people think so much.

Before lately, which would be, I believe, earlier, I was beginning to feel like it is almost enough for me to know how amazing I am. I almost don't need someone else to say that to me. So close. Because I do think I am amazing. And lovely. Wasn't really getting me anywhere thinking someone else needed to validate that.

Besides, if I try to make people be nicer to me and tell me the things I like to hear, it doesn't count. And I am sure the people are tired of being manipulated. Especially by someone who sucks at manipulation.

Heh. I told someone I care about that he was being a dick today. I said something like, "I forgot what a total dick you can be." Now, that is not a nice thing to say. At all. But, you know, it was true. He was being a dick. And I have let him be a dick to me for years because I thought it was worth it just so he'd talk to me sometimes.

Sad, huh? Finally hit me today that I don't like accepting that behavior. Tolerating someone treating me with such little regard. I do that often.

Sometimes, I do this other weird thing where I won't let the people in who are saying the nice things to me. My friend, Jimmy, can attest to that. I become uncomfortable in my skin. I kind of feel put out, like something is required of me or that the person wants something. Makes me back the fuck up and turn around as soon as I can. I don't like feeling like I am expected to do something or say something.

I would like to appreciate the nice things. The sweet things said without any manipulation attempts on my part. Or at least I shouldn't immediately run the hell away, top speed. Post haste. Quickly. Chop chop.

And maybe, knowing I am loved and cared for can be enough. What else is there? Why do I want more? Is there more? Beats me.

Seriously, who am I? What am I even doing?

I am really starting to think that I know nothing much at all.

Or claim it in the first place.

There are so, so many people and situations involving those people I don't write about because those people or situations involving them, um, involve them.

And I have tried for years, FOR YEARS, to work around that with the crypticosity, and I have had limited success. Limited.

I don't know about you, but I would like to see my write actual things.

Not saying, so much, sorry, fuck you people and situations involving you people, but, really, something has to give. And it's not going to be me. Not this time.

Haven't figured out how to work around the people and situations obstacle. I could change names, I suppose. I could call Chris "Jimmy." You'd never be able to figure that out. Nor would Jimmy.

It's not like I am wildly wide-read and popular. Shouldn't be so bad for the people. They can always stop reading.

Anyway.

Just thinking.

I am far more interesting than you know.

Robbie and I watched the storm roll in from the porch. He felt lovely and warm on my lap, and I hoped I made him feel safe. Because I felt safe.

When it started raining, he stood up tall, stripped off his clothes, and ran down the walk, doing that half-skip he has been practicing. Robbie only skips with his left leg.

He was the most glorious sight I have seen. Naked, happy, a pure body in motion.

And it hit me that he does feel safe. My son lives in the moment of always safe. He just knows.

He just is.

The isolation. By far.

It's not so much that we can't go certain places and do all of the things; we can. It's just that I never am able to have a conversation with anyone that lasts for more than 12 seconds or involves any eye contact from me whatsoever.

See, outside of this house, I cannot take my eyes off of Robbie. He simply does not understand what I call SWM: Stay With the Mommy. He just doesn't get that. Not outside in our yard, on our driveway, down the road, up the street, at the playground, park, grocery store, mall, zoo, at the pool, or on the hiking trail. There is no place, no time, that he is able to stay with me. In my general area. Nearby. Next to, around, at an arm's length, or within shouting distance. Not that he would come back to me if I shouted.

And Rob certainly doesn't know to stay away from traffic. People traffic, car traffic. Air traffic, too, probably, if he were at an airport. He'd wander off into a runway-take-off-taxiing flight pattern thing. I mean, he would do that if I ever looked away from him.

I am okay with this most of the time. I am used to it. I am accustomed to the loneliness of my days. Some days I try to weasel into those little groups of neighbors standing around talking. But eventually or sooner, Robbie is off and running or climbing up my leg making that noise, or in my arms nudging at me to go in the direction he is pointing. And so we go. To look at mailboxes on our street, or line up greeting cards at the local grocery store, or throw rock after rock into any body of water we can find. Or a puddle.

We have fun. It is fun. But, man, there are minutes and other increments of time when I can almost not stand it. I am 37. Sure, I like to play and am interested in All Things Robbie much more often and for longer periods than the vast majority of the population of 37 year-olds on the planet would be. I imagine.

And even when I find times to meet with a friend (okay, my only friend), I can't just sit around and talk. Gab. Gossip. Giggle. Share. Be a part of the group (yes, two isn't a group, I know, but I like to pretend it is). I have my eyes and ears trained on Robbie. Because he won't SWM. I can't make him stay. I can't make him understand.

I cannot make him understand.

i want to cry and cry and cry and cry and cry.

it's weird; i am firmly convinced
i just can't do anything--
right or well or at all.
intellectually, i know
that just isn't true,
but it doesn't matter.

i like it so much better when i like me.

today i do not.

i do not like me.

not even a little.

maybe it's my menses.

Never again will I give my heart so freely.
I will play it close to my chest,
with a poker-face I have yet to find.
Practice, I will--
practice until I can master that dead-pan stare,
that gaze that shows nothing and means even less.

My breath will stay even
and my heart's beating imperceptible.
No sweaty palms, no nervous giggle.
No feet shuffling, no kicking at imaginary pebbles.
The butterflies will not fly in my belly,
as their plucked wings will be dissolved by my stomach acids.

I will rip my soul from my sleeve.
It belongs inside
where I may watch over it,
keep it safe,
and preserve it from the general population,
from the likes of you.

I am emotionally easy.
I tell everyone everything--
every feeling, every nuance of every feeling,
and I am drained, empty.
There is nothing left for me.

I am tired of pleasing the people,
showering the attention,
boosting the egos.
I would be better off building my own--
building my own ego from a kit,
and painting it when the glue dries.

Maybe I'll even get a little high from the fumes.
I could use the ego-from-a-kit contact buzz.
I would rather like feeling giddy and hopeful
for myself.
You may worry about you.
You are your job.

The close-up inner workings
of my brain aren't interesting to
you, anyway.
You rarely know what the fuck I am
even talking about,
but I know,
and it's all terribly important.

This is so not about you.
Nothing is ever about you.
It is all about me.
No matter what happens today,
tomorrow, the Thursday after next,
it has everything to do with me.

I get to be me.
I need to be me and not care
whatever it is you do with you--
again with the not my job.
I will realize that.
I sort of do now.

Lately, I have been feeling rather sorry for myself. Lonely, sad, wanting someone to share the day-to-day stuff with--the funny things I say, the funny things I do, you know, all of my funny, cute moments that only I witness. But, honestly, witnessing my own moments has brought me such delight these last few weeks. Wow, months, actaully. I guess. And sometimes that has been enough. For me to delight myself. Heh.

But I really do want a someone around here, to mess around with, and not just in the special, fancy, naked way. Though, come on, who am I kidding? The special, fancy, naked way is on my mind, like, all of the time. My mind is such a slut.

In my perfect world, I would have all of my people around me, and I would delight them daily with my funny cuteness and the moments and the things. And one of the people would get to be specially fancy-naked with me.

But, alas, my people are scattered. And while I believe in my future they will be gathered around me, they are not right now.

Which brings me to the feeling sad for myself. Wistful. Longing. Wanting to have someone or someones tell me, yes, you *are* delightfully fancy and funny, and we love you like no other. Oh, God, do I want that. Them. Him. Whoever he is.

True. All true. BUT.

But, it occurred to me, in the kitchen, where all of these wonderfully amazing thoughts have jumped right into my delightfully funny brain today, that, hey, maybe my world *is* perfect now. Maybe I am perfectly alone for a perfectly good reason. And, I thought, AND, I am just going to continue being me and hope that someone notices.

I am going to continue being me and hope that someone notices.

And that sounds like a plan.

For now. This moment. Here in the present.

I just had the best next-best-feeling thought. I had been pretty down since last night, in a wonky brain-chemistry funk--where nothing at all is wrong but I feel unbelievably sad and old-- and suddenly I had just the best thought feeling. Prompted by, I don't know, necessity, perhaps.

Okay, so, my mom kept calling me because Robbie was having a meltdown; she said she had never seen him like that. Chris was already on his way over, yet she called me two more times. I guess so I could hear Robbie screaming. At first it made me want to curl up in a ball and cry. But I didn't. I got up, went on with what I should have been doing all day, cleaning the house.

Now, I was totally not procrastinating with the cleaning. The time just wasn't right yet. And who am I to go against time rightness? Never works, you know? Why not wait until the time is right for the things to be done? The things get done better then. They do.

Anyway. Felt like cleaning, so I started. I was rewarded immediately with a totally cool stream-of-consciousness thinking experience. Rewarded, I guess, for waiting until it felt right and possibly for not curling up in that ball.

I started thinking about Robbie, and how hard it can be, and how, when he gets that upset, you really have to walk backwards through your mind until you hit on what it is he is thinking he wants. I am extra good at that. I can usually find the nugget pretty quickly. And then, the best-feeling thought happened.

And that thought was:

"Thank God I am his mother."

BAM.

There I go.

That's it. That's all I need to know. The End.

Okay. I am not afraid to admit this. Not at all. Except, well, I am. More than a little. But you have to believe me. I honestly thought That Ostrich was the original artist.

I kind of like the Xtina song "Beautiful." Now, before you throw things at me, I had no idea it was she. There is an animated ostrich video that R and I watch, and That Ostrich sings it.

And now, now my Elvis is singing it. On House. He is covering the song.

It may have made me cry. More than a little.

Elvis is beautiful, in every, single way. And so am I. So is House.

So is That Ostrich.

And, you, too, of course. You are very, extra beautiful. Even if you are now making fun of me. Though, I bet you feel bad. Don't you? It's okay; words can't bring me down.

If today is any indication what the summer with Robbie will be like, man, there is no way I can get a job that requires me to do anything remotely energetic. Like standing.

This kid is incredible. He never stops. Not after our two hour walk. A walk that involved playing track and field events at the local high school track. We ran around in our lanes (he's Lane 5, I am Lane 7), per R's instructions: "Runners take the mark! On the mark, get set, Pshhhew!!!" Pshhhew, of course, being the cartoon starter's pistol sound effect. Then we'd run a bit, until he would stop and throw his arms in the air and shout: "Great job, everyone!"

That bit was from his favorite show, South Park. The Special Olympics episode, un-ironically.

Shut up. Until you live with R, do not dare judge me.

I mean, so what if his default apraxic thing to say whenever distressed is: "Oh, my God! They killed Kenny! You bastards!" It's not like any of the words are easily discernible. Except for the God, Kenny, and bastards. Actually, it sounds like he is yelling, "Jew bastards." Not at all inappropriate or disrespectful. He doesn't, however, know what a bastard is. Or a Jew, either, for that matter. He may not even know which one is Kenny. Though, he can identify Cartman by name, verbally.

And, then, after the running, we did the high jumping. I set up the bar and found a platform to stand on. I R would climb up in front of my and I would toss him up over the bar. Wow! It was so freaking fun. The boy just laughed and laughed. I know you've never met him, but if you could just his face light up like that and hear is joyously happy laughter, you would just, I don't know, like, melt or your heart would stop, and you would wonder why it was you had never felt so good and alive before in your life.

So, then we did other things. Walked, ran, played in dirt, climbed up in the grandstand and sat and looked down at the field. Walked more. Ran again. Dirt. Rocks. Home. Food. Playground. Grocery store. Home. More food. Pillow rides down the stairs. And he is still going.

Luckily, he is freakishly coordinated. I am not at all worried he is going to injure himself standing on the half-wall between the dining room and the lower level family room. He usually just jumps of the ledge and lands on the sofa. Besides, how hurt could he even get? Not too oh-so-very hurt. That's pretty much how I decide what level of lurking over him-edness I posture, by the possible pain and injury factors.

My point in all of this, and, yep, I have one, is that the single mothering of the five year-old autistic boy is so not going to be easy. Fun, yes. Absolutely. Exciting, interesting, crazy, thrilling, sure. But difficult.

Chris has a friend visiting him this weekend, so this is my first taste of the consecutive non-school days with Robbie this year. Actually, with Rob, and I suppose all children, though I really have no way of knowing for certain, but I am sure it is so, how he is changes every week. Or, day. Or, whatever. Like, he still doesn't get traffic. Or parking lots. Which has always been a problem, but this year he is much, much faster on his feet. The boy can run. Last year, he wasn't able to open the back door and leave the house all by himself. This year he can. And, again, he is fast. FAST.

Oh, hey, looks like R has finally slowed down a bit. He's sitting on the sofa, drawing Arthur. I think I will join him for a snuggle. Love you guys.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Okay, that was not so much the case. R truly has a mind of his own. He cannot be made to do anything. Like, go to bed. Good example. I tried. I really, really tired. Lots of times I tried. But he just would not cooperate in the slightest. He finally fell asleep on the sofa at 1:47 am. AM. Eastern.

Sometimes I feel like the suckiest parent on the planet.

Sure, I, in all honesty, could have forced him to remain in bed. But it would have had to have been brute force. And the screaming. God, the screaming. And the thrashing. It's like he is in physical pain. I just can't do that. I won't.

There are times when he does just cry softly, whimper a little. Toss and turn. I can deal with that. Everyone cries. Extremely healthy, that crying. Good to get it out, good to feel it, process it, all that crap. But I just cannot use the brute force and cause that screaming. He doesn't understand, or there is something he has left unfinished. Or something. It's not a normal crying.

Anyway.

Slice of my life.

And, for the record, this is just a regular day. Except, really, on a regular day I would have mowed my lawn.

He has moved out and I feel sad and weird and happy and okay and sort of like a failure a New, Improved Woman Me.

Remember when I was, um, well, bragging, I guess bragging would be the word, about how well Chris and I are getting along and how much more evolved we are than you?

Now with less highly permeable skin!
Originally uploaded by Trisha GG.

I was, uh, apparently rather mistaken. We are actually no different from you after all.

Fighting is hard. And I hate the part when someone who knows you accuses you of things he knows you simply aren't capable of doing. I don't have the kind of mind that seeks to mold people and/or situations into things that they are not. I'm really not that smart. I am not an evil genius.

I wish I were. I would totally love hatching a fiendish plan. Imagine.

But, honestly, I hate fighting. It always involves wayyy more than the situation at hand. It always involves last year and last month and fourteen Saturdays ago. And everyone has to be right and win and fuck you and fuck her and fuck that. FUCK!

Do you suppose sobbing uncontrollably burns off the calories? And the snot--does it weigh much? Because, I seriously think I cried off a couple of pounds and possibly lost twice that in sheer mucous volume. It's on the sofa now. The white one. You'll find it if you turn over the right-side cushion. It's a dandy spot.

I do feel lighter.

*Quote from one of the CSIs. Name that CSI. And win absolutely nothing.

That was my grandfather's response to the question, "How are you doing?" and it tickled him to no end. He was a punster, a quipster, a huge fan of the cryptogram. He loved a bad joke. He was always pulling legs.

And yet it was never annoying. The glee he felt was obvious, and I couldn't help but reflect that back to him.

He was the one who liked me unconditionally. His face would light up whenever I entered the room. Even if I had left just moments before, in search of a beverage or to use the bathroom. He thought I was Beautiful and he told me that often. And I desperately needed to hear it. I felt Beautiful around him. I felt special and worthy. I knew I belonged.

He and I played cards over the phone many nights a week. Was pretty darned funny, too. We played a game called Pitch. It's like Euchre for people who aren't stupid. And it doesn't lend itself easily to phone play.

I miss him so much. He died one month before Robbie was born. Of all of the people in the world, my grandfather would have gotten the biggest kick out of Robbie. He was always getting kicks out of things, and, oh! how he would have loved the little boy who seeks joy in everything. He would have been so delighted. Sometimes I see Rob through his eyes and I just weep with happy. Because I know. I know they are two who get it. Two who get me.

With the exception of my Beautiful Aunt Susan, my brother Rob (who can always be counted on to be on my side), and Robbie (who was named after Rob), and more often than not Chris, I struggle daily with being understood. So few get me.

So few get that I am absolutely earnest in all things. That I try, so hard, every day, to uplift the people, to appreciate them, to show them I love them. I am rock solid loyal to my people. Don't you mess with my people. I will absolutely have something to say about it.

And I am not coy. Or cloying. I play zero games. I am honest. And I try so hard. Just so hard. If there is something about me that isn't working for me, well, for one, I already know about it. And, B, I am working on it. I think fighting to be fighting is stupid. Grudges, silly. Manipulating the others, mean, sneaky, underhanded. Basically, I am a face value woman.

I am bad at the assuming someone likes me. I cannot keep that up for very long.

I am bad at asking for things. I don't know how. I have lived knowing that what I want doesn't matter. That asking for something, for more attention, for nurturing, for kindness yields the opposite reactions. Those very things were withheld from me once articulated. I learned that at a depressingly young age. And I have since surrounded myself with people who repeat that cycle. For years. For every year. The people who aren't like that with me are few.

So I learned to not ask. I learned it is so not okay to ask.

And now that I see that asking is okay, I totally suck at it. I am still thinking that the people will get mad at for asking. So I tiptoe around. trying to ask without asking. Doesn't work, either.

In a perfect world, I wouldn't have to ask for anything. My emotional needs would be met. The kind words would flow. I would feel infinitely appreciated.

I would not be doing without, mostly.

Everyone would be my aunt or named Rob. Or mostly Chris.

And we would all play cards on the phone. And we would know we are Beautiful.