Every Day Is Like A Box Of Dead Flies

My birthday hasn’t been a big deal to me since about 7th grade. Or, as we say in Canada, grade 7. I haven’t had a birthday party since then, other than dinner with my family, because that’s the way I like it. I don’t want a party, I don’t want people coming up to me wishing me a happy birthday, I don’t want a big deal to be made at all. Just leave the presents on the porch.

I don’t like opening them in front of people because I can never get the right “surprised face”. I always look like I just opened a box full of dead flies but I’m trying to be nice about it because these flies were hand-picked especially for me and are VERY SPECIAL and also cost a lot of money, so I should be appreciative of the effort and thought. But it’s a box of dead flies, so that face is hard to camouflage. But it’s never an ACTUAL box of dead flies; all my gifts are wonderful and I love them and they’re exactly perfect. That’s just how my face looks. Like I’m looking into a box of special dead present flies.

Behind A Closed Door

He slid down and sat on the floor, pressing his ear to the wall. Defeated, discouraged, and diminished, he could feel his chest tighten and his stomach rise to his throat as he listened without making a sound. He closed his eyes and held his mouth shut with his fingers.

“…I can’t do this anymore…”

They yelled like this almost every night and, like every night, they locked themselves in their bedroom. They thought he couldn’t hear their voices if they were behind a closed door, but he heard. He heard every word spoken, every finger pointed, every tear shed. That which made no sound felt heavy in the air that seeped through the cracks. The door couldn’t shield him from the pain churning within. These walls couldn’t protect him from the anger.

On Trying My Best

It guts me sometimes how perfectly innocent children are, especially my own. Not that they’re more innocent than other children, I just spend far less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual maturity of other people’s kids. Mine have so much to learn, despite being two of the smartest children their age I’ve ever met (not that I hold any bias). They’re wide-eyed, open-minded and overwhelmingly receptive to absorbing any particle of new information that floats their way. But they are still so new.

Sweet Release

He took her hand in his as she stepped into the street. It was warm, hot almost, and softer than she’d imagined. It distracted her for a moment and she stopped walking as she felt his palm with her thumb. He stared at her stoically as she looked down to see if it was real. She didn’t try to run, she didn’t yell for help, she didn’t fight. That’s the thing with this job – they never do.

“Is there anything…,” she cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Is there anything I can do?”

His gaze didn’t change. She could feel his eyes searching her mind. He could see into her and she could feel him pulling at her soul.

It Hurts To Say No

I’m so weak now. It surprised me every time I try to raise a glass or sit up in bed that I don’t have the luxury of independent movement anymore. That I need help doing the most simple tasks like holding a magazine and turning it’s pages. It’s these nurses jobs to help with me with things, but asking for the help never gets any less embarrassing. I’m a grown woman; I shouldn’t need someone to hold a sippy cup for me.

He brings the kids around to visit on Sunday afternoons. I told him long ago to stop, that I don’t want them remembering me like this, but he keeps bringing them. They’re old enough to know she’s sick, even that she is dying, but they don’t need to see what she’s become. A shadow of her old, boisterous self, skeletal and helpless. They should remember her full of life and vigor and joy, not like this. The man never did know how to take direction.

Abandon All Hope

She lies on the cold concrete floor, damp from urine and sweat, slick with mildew. There is no light but a thin ray which has escaped from a crack in the plywood covering the window ten, fifteen feet above her crumpled, near-lifeless body. She breathes, but with great effort, slow, shallow, laboured. At last count, she’s been here for twenty-four days, give or take a day or two spent unconscious. Twenty-four days in the dark. Twenty-four days standing, then sitting, then laying on this cold concrete floor.

The dress she wore on the night she was taken, once perfectly pressed delicate chiffon, was now ripped and stained. Blood from her tortured, weathered body, ravaged and pillaged by her captors, torn and battled, worn and tested. They left her clothed, but her heels were taken, leaving her feet bare and vulnerable.

Parents: Own Your Children’s Behaviour

I always say how bullied I am, but no one listens, what do I have to do so people will listen to me?

– Jamey Rodemeyer’s final post to Tumblr

July 19, 2018

Jamey Rodemeyer, aged 14, killed himself this weekend.  At 14, Jamey was just a boy.  He had endured years of bullying, at school and online.

We, as parents, are responsible for our children.  We are responsible for feeding them and sending them to school and making sure they’re healthy and clean.  We are responsible for loving them and teaching them how to love others.  We must treat them with respect and teach them to treat others with respect.  We can not control their behaviour, but we can, must, teach them what is right and what is absolutely unacceptable.  We must own this responsibility.

Sleep and suffocate

It’s so much easier to just stay inside. It’s warm in here and the air is still. Outside the wind is cold and it’s too much. Too much muchness. I like the walls. I like how they shelter and protect and keep the muchness away from me. I can sleep inside.

But then, I think, maybe it’s too still. Maybe it’s too warm. The walls feel smothering and overbearing and I can’t breathe. The air is outside and I’m in here and here is crushing me.

Pedestrian rage

I’ve been over this so many times. Not sure if just in my head, or if I’ve actually written about it, but it FEELS like I’ve said this A MEEEELLION TIMES. And here I go again:

A little driving lesson for those who use the four-way stop outside my work – if I am crossing, you wait AAAAAALL the way over on your side of the stop until I have completed my cross and am safely on the sidewalk. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. I cross, you wait. While I am doing the crossing, you are doing the waiting.

Weak From The Fight

PMS is loud with fury and rage and frustration. We suffer, but not in silence. It screams inside our head and pounds its fists on our skull until we let it out. It grabs hold of the reigns and makes us do things and behave in ways that we wish we wouldn’t, and then whispers in our ears, telling us we’re terrible, worthless people. That lump in your throat, the burning behind your eyes, the ache in your head – that’s PMS, taking up space, uninvited, ungrateful. Bastard. Your temper is quick, emotions are sensitive and raw, your patience is run dry. You are anyone but you. And yet you are.