I won't pretend I didn't know we were taking on water.
Gosh, that first collision should have been the clearest signal
that escape would be less and less possible
with each passing year, each snag of age,
each stubborn refusal to stop playing the same old songs.
He's back in fighting form these days.
In fact, he bounced back almost immediately after we left.
And only after the cruelty of tainting my grandmother's funeral
and the continued cruelty that we just didn't mean that much to him,
only now, five months after having strapped Herb on my back
and taken the last lifeboat home to my old war torn country,
only now do I feel
a bit better.
Not better. Better isn't the word.
Less bitter isn't the word either.
Very nearly out of love, I think.
But there must be some left, because I took one last look before sealing the Facebook cave door, and oh, all those girls giggling it up on his page...
I am no longer in love. That's certain.
But seeing all makes me feel even uglier
than I already do.
....What? You thought this was going to be a HAPPY post?
Sorry, folks. Maybe next time.
"How's Herb?"
Excellent! Glad you asked.
My son, my beautiful mound of top rope hugs and sticky kisses,
he is thriving in these extreme conditions. He's like grass or something.
From the frozen tundra, he emerges
and raises his arms towards the sun.
He never asks about his dad and doesn't seem to care much on the ultra rare occasions his father can be bothered with visiting. His indifference both depresses and relieves me. To know at such a young age that it's not worth counting on...
He'll be 3 in August.
I've been dragging my feet on potty training, but that's more to do with the fact that I've lived at work since we left (Nicky poo doesn't pay child support, surprise surprise). So it's not that I don't think he'll get it, I just haven't had time to get messy.
We no longer co-sleep on the chair. He outgrew it (and me) pretty immediately after moving back into my parent's house. We now co-sleep on a pull out couch bed thing, and even now, as I write this, his 2 year old cement body occupies most of it.
I'll have to invest in a padded floor.
"So what's the plan now?"
Excellent question. I haven't a clue.
I pulled 40 reg hours and 27 OT hours last week.
If I can continue to kill myself at work, I might be able to keep us sheltered.
When we left, we broke the lease on the old apartment.
Why? Cause when you come home to what I came home to, you sort of realize that sticking around is way crazier than fearing bad credit.
Don't get it twisted, though. Bad credit is fucking awful.
So that broken lease means I'm blacklisted from just about every apartment complex AND they reserve the right to sue me for the owed amount.
Part of my plan was to file for bankruptcy, then file for divorce.
I've done neither.
I'm trying to regain control of things. I really am.
Part of my half-assed plan for escape was to really start working on trying to get published as a standalone poet.
But here again, I lack the TIME for just about anything.
It's a shitty defeatist attitude that I'm working on.
I suppose I could write at 5am and force myself to stay awake after 14 hours at work.
Why am I awake now?
You're full of good questions, you know that?
My midnights start tomorrow, so I'm prepping to be less miserable.
Oh, I didn't mention?
In light of this whole foreclosure thing (don't scroll back up, I didn't mention it either), I've been working shift work on top of my usual work. So my days average between 13-15 hours and I have not had a day off in ...13 days?
Yowza.
I'm hoping to resurrect this blog. Maybe the dedication to reviving this will inspire me to try to do something more meaningful.
Maybe.
Maybe pigs will fly out of my butt.
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