Like vs. Love

I hope your new “family” makes you happy and I hope it helps you sleep better at night, knowing that you replaced the one family that was always there for you.

No matter how many times you slander our name, call us bullies, spineless, verbally abusive, you know your truths. You know the façade you portray to the public eye is a ruse and you know it’s wrong. You know you’re a hypocrite when you tell us we live lives of sin. You know you’re wrong.

You’re wrong to put your friends before your family; family that supported you when you feared being gay – as if being gay is wrong or bad; family that supported the incessant wailings from your clarinet practices in your room and that attended every band event you participated in. You’re wrong to put your friends in front of the family that made you laugh throughout your entire young, entitled life and the family that swelled with pride when you walked across that stage and received your Bachelor’s Degree.

But what I’ll never forget is how quickly you disregarded the heartfelt message I inscribed into your graduation card, telling you how much I loved and missed you and how much I wish we lived closer to one another. This card you disregarded because you were too “busy” dealing with your new family’s children. This card you disregarded and, in one fell swoop, read the card from your new family… your new sister.

Your new family was not there for you in your darkest of times. They didn’t let you climb into their bed when you got scared in the middle of the night. They didn’t spoil you with toys and shower you with love. They didn’t defend you when you were being bullied in school. They didn’t pick you up or drop you off at multiple friend’s houses and they weren’t there when you were suffering from heartbreak.

They replace us because YOU have changed, my dear sibling. You are blind to what others see. You have become the person you hate most. You are judgmental and have alienated yourself from your family. You are spineless and submissive to your husband. You have allowed the church to envelop you in their cultish bubble and you judge those outside of that realm. Your husband is neither kind nor accepting of lifestyles outside of his own – he has poisoned your mind to think the same way.

I liked you better when you were with your ex. You have not improved as a person, nor have you become a better person, since being with your husband. You have drastically and radically changed your views of the outside world and you have become distant. You’re never too busy to ask things of us, your old family, but when we try to contact you to say hi and to keep in touch, you miraculously have better things to do.  When you need advice, you seek the advice of your new family because they advise in the Christian way.

I do not feel remorse for saying what I’m saying, but I do feel remorse that you are no longer the sister I knew or grew up with. And that breaks my heart more than anything. You will never be the same person you once were and that’s a difficult piece of knowledge to accept. Your diet doesn’t make you better than us, your religion doesn’t make you better than us, your military husband doesn’t make you better than us, your lifestyle doesn’t make you better than us and your income doesn’t make you better than us.

You have cast aside the three people who watched you grow and accompanied you throughout your childhood. We did not bully you, as you falsely accuse, and we did not mentally abuse you, as you falsely accuse. You know you’re wrong. You know you’re wrong when you say you had a horrible childhood. The moment those words left your mouth, you slapped the hand that fed you and the hearts that loved you. You were a spoiled, entitled child, as much as I was, and you loved every minute of it.

Words cannot describe my disappointment in you.

You have changed and not for the better.

I will always love you, but I do not have to like you.

1.

I brush the stray strand of hair out of my face with my fingers and look at myself indifferently in the mirror. Nothing fascinating today. Just regular me. I finish applying my lipstick, touch up the corners, sigh and walk out to the living room. Pulling on my cardigan, a feeling of regret tingles in the pit of my stomach. Two years ago today, I started down this path of misery and I want out. Enough is enough. I grab my car keys and purse, stop to kiss each of my dogs on the head and head out the front door.

Dragging my feet on the asphalt out to where my car is parked, I start to feel the all too familiar feeling of angst and anger, mixed as one. I climb into the car, pull the seat belt across my body and start my car. For just a minute too long, I sit there, car running, questioning my choices. Why did I think this would be a good idea? Was I that desperate? Sighing once more, I put the car into reverse and back out of the driveway.

As I drive, a thousand thoughts run through my mind, anger boiling deep down inside of me at how deep of a rut I’m in. No matter how hard I try to claw my way out of this hole, I can never quite grasp the edge of it to pull myself up and out. I dread the day’s impending tasks and the thought of what’s ahead boils my anger further.

I pull into the parking lot – the parking lot that belongs to the source of my misery. Checking my makeup once more, I reluctantly turn off my car and grab my things, slowly opening my door, bracing for the events soon to follow. I trudge along the asphalt to the building I’m to be stuck in for the next nine hours of my life and wince as I stick my key into the lock of the front door and open it.

Locking the front door behind me, I step into the cool, dim room. Not a sound can be heard. I clunk along in my heels to my desk, set my belongings down, sit in my chair and sigh once more. Bringing my computer to life, I lean my head back and look to the sky.

There has to be more to life to this.

An open letter to my grandmother:

You recently asked me why I thought you were judgmental.

Where should I start?

You have failed to accept daddy’s nine-year relationship with his wife. You have failed to accept that I am not my sister and continue to compare me to her and her “perfect, white picket fence” life. You fail to say anything nice to me when you see me and you seem to be fixated on the fact that I never call you, when you know full well why I don’t.

Dad is going to be 53 years old this year. He has a 26-year-old child and a 23-year old child, soon to be 24. He has been with his wife since August 2005 and while you pretend to like his new family on the outside, inside you’re judging your black little soul away. You insult him by comparing his new wife to my mother. You feel the incessant need to constantly bring up the fact that he married into five additional children that will “suck away” his money and everything he’s worked for. You question his motives every day and when he had his seizure, your tactless mouth told him that you “expected” it would happen someday – instead of asking if he was okay, you told him that you knew it would happen someday. You question how he spends his money, how he saves. You question why he helps raise the three youngest stepchildren and the step-grandchild. You question why he works two jobs and what need he feels to go back to school to earn his Master’s Degree. You tell him you support him in his endeavors and yet, turn around and ask me why he’s doing what he’s doing and that he’s sure to head to an early grave.

You ask me, every time I see you, why I haven’t lost weight. On the contrary, it’s “how have you gained so much weight?” … “Have you seen how small and fit your sister is?”… “Have you seen her body?”… I usually nod and agree that yes, she is doing well for herself, and leave it at that. You hold her in the highest regard because she has a college degree she’ll do nothing with, she married a man in the Army that will ensure she will never have to work another day in her life, she moved to Washington “like a grown up” and has plans of grandeur. I am your bastard grandchild. I am your first, but I am the bastard of the family, in your judgmental eyes. You regard me as you regard my father. With disgust. With disdain. With mistrust. With speculation. With disappointment. I chose to not pursue college because I didn’t have the motivation, want, nor money, to. I chose to pursue a job to provide for myself and for my future family. I prefer good food and good drinks in good company than losing two hours of my life a day to the gym and multiple more watching what I eat. I like to laugh, eat, drink, dance and spend money. I will dye my hair every color of the rainbow and get more and more tattoos until you no longer recognize who I am. You question why I work the job I do and question why I don’t go back to school. You bring up my past mistakes and throw them in my face as if they were nothing.

You idolize my sister. She has the “outer her” covered. Supportive husband, nice house, new state, religion, friends, college degree, fit body. The “inner her” is nothing you know of. Why, she’s as judgmental as you are. You should be proud. Her family rarely hears from her unless she needs something. She regards her friends higher than she does her own sister. She confides in her friends more than her own sister. She says she has no money and yet buys nothing but top of the line clothes. She’s tens of thousands of dollars in debt, but that’s okay, right? Because she’s “perfect”. YOU raised your daughter (my aunt) to be the same judgmental, condescending, conceited little twat she is. But in your distorted, twisted world, that’s the right way to live.

I’m judged on my hair color, weight, paycheck. My husband is judged on his paycheck and job choice. My father is judged on his career choices, school choices and family. My sister is judged on nothing.

Why are you judgmental? Because you cannot accept the things you don’t want to see. Even if they’re thrown into the middle of your face, if you don’t agree with it, you judge. You tell dad I’m lying about where we live because we use a PO box for our mail; people can’t possibly say they live where they live and have a PO box at the same time, can they? You tell dad you expected him to eventually have a seizure and you call his wife a moocher. I’m fat, chubby, chunky, pudgy and tell me I should “lay off of the cookies so [you] can look like [your] sister,” right? If I lost weight, I wouldn’t have to be so self conscious and could fit into a bikini?

I don’t even know why I let you bother me as much as you do. But here’s something for you: I am disappointed in you. I am disappointed at how sad and meaningless your life has become so that you feel the need to occupy yourself by judging the lives of others. You once told me I should respect my elders, no matter how they treat me. Fuck you. You don’t deserve my respect and you have never earned it. When you blatantly insult my father and myself, every day, because of the choices WE made for OUR lives, you deserve nothing. Not my time, energy, effort or love. You can get all of those from your “golden grandchild,” my sister.

You do not get to question the lives of others and expect to not receive any repercussions.

You are a sad individual. I will never call you again and I will never talk to you unless it’s absolutely required in a civil setting.

You are such a disappointment and I am disgusted with you.

Weight, you will be defeated.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. 

How many “first days” do we have in our life, exactly? What constitutes as a “first day” in anyone’s life? New Year’s resolutions? Mid-life crises?

For me, today, it’s weight loss.

The first day of the rest of my life starts today.

Weight loss is a mindset.

An evil, conniving, manipulative mindset that makes even the laziest, lazier.

And if you have friends and family members NOT on board with your weight loss, that makes it an even bigger red-headed stepchild than it was before.

Weight loss must be conquered like the bastard Helchgam in the Carn Dûm sewers in Lord of the Rings Online (LoTRO for short). I want to defeat the Helchgam (I have, but for the sake of the analogy…) and I want to walk away, gloating, slimy tentacle trophy in hand for my little house in Hobbiton.

Photo courtesy of turbine.com and Lord of the Rings Online.

What better way to motivate weight loss than with a Lord of the Rings analogy?

Perhaps if I see my weight loss as a mission to conquer an evil villain, maybe I’ll be more motivated? Yeah, that’s it. 

Nothing gets me more excited in a good session of LoTRO than defeating a sewer monster. I fight and fight and motivate my team as Captain until we win.

Why can’t I use that same motivation to lose this damn weight?

Losing weight really isn’t hard.

No, it isn’t.

You can argue with me day and night, but it’s not.

If you’re lazy (like me), it’s hard.

If you love food (like me), it’s hard.

I dread going to the gym. I dread not seeing immediate results. I dread watching what I eat when I want to stuff the whole pizza into my mouth… like, now. (Extra ranch, please.) I dread people asking me to breakfast, lunch or dinner. I freak out. The hell am I supposed to eat?

Portion control. Calorie counting. Protein shakes. What works best for who? How am I supposed to know?

I am no stranger to diets. I’ve done Nutrisystem (and made fantastic progress), got off track, starting eating the way I did before and put the weight back on. I’ve done Lean Shakes from GNC – made great progress, got off track, started eating the way I did before and put the weight back on. I’ve done the portion control diet, attempted Weight Watchers and realized too much math was involved, tried to just eat good, wholesome foods and exercise – all of which, at some point, aided me in weight loss.

My brain is my biggest UNmotivator. I see progress or want to see more progress and I give up.

Honestly, how hard is it to drink a protein shake for breakfast and lunch, accompanied by a yogurt, eat 2 tbsp. of nuts for a snack, drink eight glasses of water and just eat a normal, portion controlled dinner?

It’s not. But we make it harder than it needs to be.

You have the external sources offering us chips, salsa, chocolate, alcohol, candy, sour cream, bread. The external sources who aren’t trying to lose weight or who are, by nature, naturally skinny. (I hate you, by the way.)

And what’s so hard about getting your butt in the car and driving to the gym?

It’s not. But we make it harder than it needs to be.

So, my thinking is, if I can get so excited and motivated for the reward that awaits me at the end of defeating the Helchgam, how hard would it be to apply that same excitement and motivation to my weight loss?

Weight = Helchgam. Easy. Now, I defeat you.

Humans, by nature, tend to over-think everything. And we have a very strange love affair with food. If we weren’t required to eat, I wouldn’t.

…Okay, I’m lying. I would. I love food too much.

But why must we over-think the crap out of losing weight? Why do we make it so difficult to follow one simple routine and not torture ourselves with the thought of Sonic’s french fries or Jack in the Box’s tacos?

I don’t know. I’ve yet to figure out why I make it so difficult on myself to lose weight. I have no idea why I torture myself. Just do it, Holly. Why would there be any other question? JUST DO IT. 

Which brings us back to now.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. 

Goal is #4 from the left. Or #2 from the right. Whichever you prefer.

No, I am not dieting. I am losing weight I have no intention of ever finding again. I will eat and enjoy everything I like, in moderation. I will eat well throughout the day (protein shakes, yay…) and I will moderate my dinners. I will work out.

I’m sick of the up and down, yo-yo relationship I have with my weight. Tired of being asked how far along I am until my baby’s born – tired of being told, “Wow, you’ve put some weight on.” I’m tired of looking in the mirror and being unhappy, to the point of disgust, with myself. I’m tired of feeling my clothes get tighter and tighter.

Want to know what really brought my attention to my unnoticed weight gain?

The zipper on my dress popped when I leaned over. It popped. Split. Separated. And besides the sheer horror I felt when it happened, my stomach turned. I knew I had put weight on since last year, but had I really put on that much?

My pictures deceive me. I look great in my clothes. I really do. When I’m naked? Not so much.

I weighed 175 lbs at 15 years old. That was my heaviest. Puberty hit, I dropped to 140 lbs. That was my lightest. 175 lbs was my heaviest weight, until I stepped on the scale today.

Ladies and gents, I, very unhappily, weight 195 lbs. 

That’s FIVE pounds from 200. I’m 5’6″ and I’m not okay with that.

I thought I was in horror when my zipper popped? I lied. I about lost my breakfast when I saw that number.

And now, I am ashamed. Ashamed I let myself get this bad, ashamed I let myself get off track, ashamed I was too scared to do weekly weigh-ins.

I’m sad, upset, angry, depressed and disgusted.

That changes today. 

I am holding myself accountable and I will lose the weight I have gained and more.

I will see that 140 lbs again. Maybe even beat it! (But let’s not become anorexic, eh?) And even typing that, I roll my eyes at the thought of having to eat right, eat better, get in my car and drive to the gym and sweat. I roll my eyes at the work I’ll have to put in. And it makes me sigh. Makes me depressed. I hate having to work for something I want. 

You’re making it difficult again. 

My weight is the Helchgam of Carn Dûm.

And I will defeat it.

(Track my progress and motivate me on Instagram: @inserthealthytitlehere) 

Depressed.

Depression.

Funny little word. 

What does it mean to you?

I think I’m depressed; but I’m not sure how to discern depression from sheer frustration.

I hate my job. I’ve put in over 200 applications since June 2012. This is where my depression, or frustration, roots.

I’ve had seven interviews from those 200+ applications – no callbacks. There’s always someone out there better skilled than me.

I’ve been wanting to cry for the last three or four days. Just at work. At home, life is beautiful. I’m relaxed, calm, loved. I have my husband, little dogs, little hamster. All is right in the world.

I work for Riverstone Property Management. I come from Camden Property Management. Both have made me loathe property management.

Camden promotes people from within – except for me. Camden gives you two weeks of vacation at the start of the year and rolls any additional vacation hours from the year prior, under 40 hours, into the next. Camden requires you wear dull uniforms. Camden is a piss pot of piss people.

Riverstone promotes people with tenure, not experience. You are required to work federal holidays if your numbers are below 95%. You can wear what you like, but you do not get two weeks of new vacation at the start of the year. Any hours you had from the year prior rolls into the next year and that’s what you start off with. Riverstone does not educate their employees on such policies and leaves it to them to discover these minor items of interest themselves. Riverstone is also a piss pit of piss people.

I am depressed because I have a whopping 12 hours of vacation time. I rolled over with eight from 2013 and accrue 3 hours each paycheck. I’ve had three paychecks this year, for a total of nine hours – 20 including the hours from 2013 – and I used eight on the second weekend of January to spend some time with my mom, completely unaware I didn’t have a new 80 hours to work from.

My father lives in California and phones me the other day – wants to know when we’ll be out to help him lay new wood floor in his home. Wants to know when we’re going to come out to use the Disney park and hotel vouchers we earned by sitting through a miserable 2.5 hour timeshare spiel. Wants to know if I’ve requested off that nine day vacation yet for August.

My stomach drops.

I have 12 hours of vacation time. One day, four hours. I’m using eight of those 12 hours to go to Viva Las Vegas this year. I would need 96 hours of vacation to do everything.

So what do I do?

I’m stuck.

In a rut.

Stuck stuck stuck.

If I quit my job, I have no income. No income merits no vacation. No vacation puts me right back to where I started. Why cut out the middle man?

If I somehow, miraculously, find myself with a new job, I start with zero vacation. Time is ticking. And even if I got a job that rewards vacation hours after six months of employment, we’re talking about me here and I’m not so lucky.

We are given but one life in this world and how I am spending it? Monday, Thursday, Friday, 9:00 am to 6:00 pm; Saturday. 10:00 am to 5:00 pm; Sunday, 1:00 pm to 5:00 pm. Wasting away in a job that doesn’t challenge me, doesn’t pay me enough, doesn’t give me enough vacation. Doesn’t promote me, doesn’t increase  my hourly wage. I spend most of my day on here, reading through blogs I wish I could write, on Instagram, on Facebook. Not being productive, not learning anything new and becoming increasingly irritated with the human populace.

Not to mention, I haven’t had a single day off with my husband, with the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas, since April of 2013. Holly, stop whining, stop complaining. There are people out there who have it worse off than you. 

Ta da! Here is where depression enters. Here is where my problem is. This is where I think my shit is worse off than yours. I know it’s not, but I don’t know how to cope with it. Not having a day off with your significant other for over a year takes a harder toll on you than you think.

We can’t do anything. We can’t plan anything.

And nothing grinds my gears more than hearing a coworker complain about having to sacrifice one of the TWO days they regularly get off with their spouses.

I’m depressed.

At least, I think I am.

Nothing is happening. Nothing is moving. Everything is stagnant. I’m not progressing in my career and I am not enriching my life as I should be.

I don’t understand why employers won’t consider me, won’t hire me. I have never had this much trouble getting a job in my life.

I’m mad at God. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone around me. I hate seeing other people succeed. That should be ME. That should be MY new career. I have the experience – all you are is a $50,000 debt for a piece of paper. Congratulations to you.

Maybe I complain too much.

Maybe I whine too much.

Maybe I’m just depressed.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

What can I say? I love you guys for your braaaaaaaaaains…

So help me, God.

My neighbors bring the crazy out of me. Every day that I stay home from work is another day I plot my the demise of my neighbors. The incessant fighting over parking spots, constant banging of who knows what over my head, the annoying “peeps” into my patio, into my home… I feel this sensation bubbling up from the pit of my stomach and I want to satiate it.

– Gather my dog’s accidents and leave them in a bucket in the corner of the patio? Let the sun heat it up and stink it up? 

– Gather my dog’s accidents and smash them into the landing at the bottom of the stairs? Or next to where they have to stand to open their car door?

– Sugar up the staircase? A collection of dog feces at the end of the sugar trail?

– Small collections of trash stuffed into their AC? Accidental liquid spills into their AC unit? 

– Small collection of children’s stickers stuck all over the windows of their vehicles? You know, the ones that are impossible to get off? 

– Rocks behind the tires of their vehicles?

– Notes attached to the edge of my patio, so as their curiosity gets the better of them and they start peering into my balcony, they’ll be greeted with less than savory tidbits of how I REALLY feel about them?

– A note attached to the front part of their patio, with an arrow pointing up, specifying that a royal team of troglodyte c*nts live upstairs?

– Calling up my dear friend at the tow company and have all three cars towed out of spite?

– Get a big dog and let him growl, hiss, spit and bark at them as they walk by?

– Blast shotgun sound clips at random intervals throughout the night into their bedroom, with the bass boost on high?

HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH BAD NEIGHBORS WITHOUT GOING INSANE? Moving is, currently, not an option and flat out smacking them in the head isn’t an option, nor legal, either.

I dream of the day where I don’t worry or stress about whether or not my husband and I will come home and have a spot to park in. I dream of the day where we have NO one over our head, making our lives miserable. I dream of the day where I retaliate against my upstairs neighbors in such a way that they become so scared of me that they move.

Alas, I don’t want to end up in jail… so for now, it’s all just a bunch of plans that will, more likely than not, never come to fruition. Until then, you’ll find me ripping out my hair, banging a broom on the ceiling and yelling obscenities at the illegal immigrants living over my head.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Three Words a Day: 

Day 41: 

http://threewordsaday.wordpress.com/2014/02/10/20140210-day-41/

battle
speed
separately
member
version

The speed of which the battle was fought was explained differently with each individual’s version.

Day 42:

http://threewordsaday.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/20140211-day-42/

nice
welfare
invisible
signs
tremble

A tremble passed through her frail body,
as the signs came into focus.
The welfare of her and her family was in the hand of an invisible being,
who was anything but nice.

Day 43:

http://threewordsaday.wordpress.com/2014/02/12/20140212-day-43/

undo
ahead
especially
better
attraction

Undo what has been done ahead of time to better yourself.

Writer’s Block.

I’m suffering from writer’s block. A million ideas go through my head at least once a day when I’m not writing and the moment I sit down to pen my thoughts down, I draw a blank. I have been writing since I was taught my ABC’s. I didn’t write well back then and I won’t pretend I write well now. But I do enjoy it. It calms me down and nothing feels better than my thoughts flowing through my fingertips and into my computer. 

I used to have a fictionpress.com account. (Is that what it was called?) That was my first attempt at writing something other than a school assignment. My writings were more poems than anything else and were written of the mind of a 15-year-old awkward girl, smitten with a boy who never once said “hi” to her in junior high or high school. I’ve attempted to dig up my old account, but can’t find the email or password associated with it, or if I’ve even got the right web address – I’ve gone through about 30 different emails in the last ten years, after all.

Other writings “published” on my account were full of anger directed at the impending divorce of my parents. I had such anger for an overdramatic 15, almost 16-year-old girl. It’s sad, really, because ten years later, I’m still angry and overdramatic. But what makes me upset is that there was one particular “poem”, if you will, that I wrote concerning my parent’s marriage. I can still remember the first line: Pounding her fists against the wall, she braces herself for the breakdown… But after that, it’s gone. I want that poem back. I want to read it. 

I suppose if I wasn’t so lazy, I could go dig through my teenage journal full of “woe is me” poems and see if a copy of it is hiding in there. But, it still doesn’t resolve my current situation of being absolutely and utterly brain dead about what to write next. Write what you know. I know some things… not a lot… but none of it, I assume, would interest my readers. Some of it my readers don’t even need to know. 

What do you do to bring yourself out of a bout of writer’s block?

Just a little something.

Three Words a Day, Day 40:

court
rarely
turns
which
all

It rarely turns out that all men who court women are actually worth their snuff.

Stay true; don’t be blue.

In lieu of the Zero to Hero Challenge, I have followed through on Day 27’s task and have revisited and revised my “About Me” page.

Check it out:

Definition of rockabella: The female version of psychobilly and/or rockabilly.

A blue-eyed rockabella from Vegas venturing down a road of self-improvement.  The pride and joys of my life are my husband and two little dogs. I am learning that life is far too short to miss out on that last shot of vodka, to not get that tattoo just yet, to not dye my hair whatever color I please. I can be a negative Nancy, a pessimistic Polly and a mean Molly – but I’m working on it. It takes a lot of energy to constantly be positive and I’m neither motivated nor concerned with making other people like me. I  love my ’98 Jeep, Rammstein, Lord of the Rings and steampunk – most of all, I love rockabilly, psychobilly and the lifestyle associated with both.

I write about what inspires me, what I buy, what I want to improve on, life experiences and my thoughts (good and bad). Above all else, I ask you to challenge me. Contrary to popular belief, yes, your writing can always improve. Take constructive criticism and don’t whine.