Unbelieveable!  Even as verbose as I am, I can't believe I've been blogging for five years.

I started blogging in 2003 to help me express my despair after my mother's death.  By despair I mean grief and all that entails -- rage, crying, screaming, venting, cursing God, overwhelming loneliness and on and on and on. 

Much has followed -- many memories about different periods of my life -- drug addiction ... prostitution ... rich and world traveling ... recovering from drug addiction ... a little thing called Hurrican Katrina ... fighting to get my life back ... fighting to save my sanity ... falling in love ... and the beat goes on.  There's much more to come, more to revisit, more to recall, rehash. 

My advise is if you want to travel this path with me, then you'd better fasten your emotional safety belt because this crazy thing called my life is a wild and crazy emotional roller coaster.

For your amusement .. and mine as well to see where I was five years ago today ... my first blog entry.

Happy 5th Birthday, Blog!

As America celebrates Independence Day, I wish it was my independence day.  Early May, I was hoping to be home by July 4th.  Obviously ... I'm not.

After my morning swim, I had to run an errand.  When I left, Mr. Man was snoozing on the sofa with no plans of leaving the house.  I wasn't gone long.  When I returned, he was gone ... he made a break for it while I was out.  What he doesn't get, is that I don't mind if he goes out ... I just don't know who he'll be when he walks back in -- Mr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde.  Except for not being able to pass a bar, he's pretty unpredictable.  Most days I can keep my head up, find some joy here and there ... today I'm tired.  I'm just so damned tired.

Enjoy your weekend, y'all and BE SAFE!

Okay ... what's that saying ... "It's the squeaky wheel that get's the grease."  Oooo, what a little bitchin' will do.

I called my doctor yesterday to kvetch.  I hadn't gotten either of my referrals after her promise to put me on the fast track so we can get this lump behind my ear thing taken care of.  I received a call yesterday with the surgeon's name and number so I can make the appointment and a call this morning from the imaging center with my appointment information for my CAT Scan. 

Here we go ...

• 7/2/08 - 3:30PM: CAT Scan
• 7/9/08 - 2:40PM: Surgeon (eval appt)

Do NOT mess with this Latina ... mess with the bull, you'll get the horns!  Actually, it's more like: mess with the Chihuahua, you'll get incessant yapping and nipping at your ankles.  Chalk one up for the little brown girl!

Ay, ay, ay, ay. Canta y no llores.
translation: Ay, ay, ay, ay.  Sing and don't cry

It truly sucks when you're taking a huge gulp of tea and realizing in that instant that it passes from your lips to your throat that you've just swallowed something other than tea.  Ewwww!  What the hell was that?

The only thing worse is looking in the cup to see floating there a tiny little wing! =^p  *gag*

I always find it very curious that immediately after writing about my past i.e., drug addiction and prostitution or even mentioning being a drug addicted prostitute, people who were visiting my blog on a fairly regular basis quit visiting.  I know, I know -- that's about them and not me.  Even though the little professor in my head says it's about them, the child within says it's about me.

A person very dear and near to my heart recently said to me, "I'm sorry I'm not who you thought I was."  While I understand why they felt that way, it wasn't true.  I'm certainly not one to judge.  Having been on the other end of that whip, I'm not likely to dole out lashes.

I'm not ashamed of my past  ... it is what is is ... it happened, I can't undo it, I'm not that person any longer.  In my opinion, it speaks more of circumstance than it does character.

I won't apologize for my past. What I will say is I'm sorry that you feel I'm not who you thought I was.  It's makes me sad that you feel I've disappointed you. 

The strange thing is that my present embarrasses me more than my past.  I don't want to be a victim and sometimes it almost sounds like that's the situation.  The truth is I'm a patient person who is very accustom to doing what needs to be done, no matter how uncomfortable it is.  I'll get through this ... just like I got through sexual abuse, domestic abuse, homelessness and drug addiction ... one step at a time, one day at a time and knowing, no matter what someone says, I'm worth saving.  There's a better life waiting for me ... a better me.  I for one can't wait to share her with those who never, not once, judged me, but have loved me and supported me through all of this.  Some days may be dark now but that place in the distance is glowing -- it's the dawn of a new day and a new way called the rest of my life.

Paul sent me the most wonderful birthday card.  I just have to share it.

The front reads:  "I'm just gonna give it to you straight on your birthday !"

Open it up and ...

By the way, in case anyone is wondering, I covered the personal sentiment because it's for my eyes only. *grin*

It cracks me up every single time!  I enjoy it so much, I just might make it my ringtone!  I had to take several videos because I was either laughing so loud you couldn't hear hoops&yoyo or I was laughing so hard the video came out too shakey.  I just love it!  Reminds me of the good old days, when I was in my twenties and would walk by construction sites.  G'ahead, say it -- ain't nuthin' humble about Friday.  You would be so right.  It's hard to be humble when you look as fine as I do.  YUM!  *wink*

Paul ... brilliant choice!  You certainly know the secret of making a girl feel "fine" on her birthday (or any day for that matter) ... appeal to her vanity.  The older she gets, the better it works, too. *hint, hint*  Are you taking notes?

I <3 hoops&yoyo!

Fight or flight?  This would seem like an easy choice.  My head tells me that flight would be the smartest choice ... just walk away.  Most of my life, though, the opposite has been true ... I usually fight.

My relationship with Mr. Man is not my first rodeo.  I've been in abusive relationships before, although, Mr. Man seems to be better at the mental and emotional abuse than anyone I've ever know.  My other two abusers (husbands) were hitters.  I don't think I asked for it or deserved it, but I'm certain that at times I exacerbated the situation, even knowing I was going to get hit. 

Last night I was remembering a time when my first husband hit me because he didn't want to talk about the bill collectors calling me at work (which was jeopardizing my job).  He told me to shut-up.  Thinking that he would realize it was important, I told him we really needed to do something.  I didn't see his fist flying toward my face but I felt it.  I went down ... I remember my feet literally flying out from under me.

I was laying there in shock.  I don't know why.  He had hit me before but never with his fist and never in the face.  I couldn't breathe.  I wondered if he had broken my nose.  That's the first time the fight or flight factor came into play.  I should have shut-up. I should have stayed down.  I should have realized that getting up would be like painting a bullseye on my face.  Maybe I did realize it -- but back in those days, when faced with a threat, the hair went up on the back of my neck and I prepared to fight.  I sat up, managed to get myself on my feet and stood before him.  I just stood there, not saying a word -- staring at him blankly.  I wanted to show him that I wasn't afraid of him ... even though I was.

As I stood there I saw his eyes start to narrow.  It was a stand off and he was going to end it.  His fist came flying at my face.  I saw it this time.  I didn't even flinch.  I just stood there until it connected and then I was on the floor again.  I felt like I might lose consciousness but unfortunately, I didn't.  I managed to get on my hands and knees, crawl to the kitchen table and chairs, using one of the chairs to pull myself up.  When I stood, he was there before me.  I straightened up as much as I could and again, looked him in the eye.  I felt something trickling down my face.  I brushed it away but didn't look to see if I was slobbering or bleeding, I just kept looking at him.

Each time I got to my feet, it angered him more.  This time, the punch was an uppercut.  I fell back.  My head literally bounced off the floor.  I heard a dull cracking sound.  I tried to even just lift my head but couldn't.  Then, thank goodness, I lost consciousness.  His temper mixed with my stubborn streak surely would have done some permanent damage ... might have even killed me.  I was only nineteen and nowhere near ready to die.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital.  I had a deep gash in my forehead (at the hairline), a black eye, a swollen lip, bruised cheek and my skull was fractured.  When I opened my eyes, my mother-in-law was there.  She frowned at me and said, "What the hell did you do to my son?"  Huh?  What did I do to HIM?  Pfffft!  I wondered why she was there and why he wasn't.  Just then he walked into the room,  He came over to the hospital bed and kissed me on my swollen lip ... I didn't dare pull away but I did wince a little.  He said to me, "I'm sorry.  You should have shut up when I told you to.  See what you made me do?"  I was confused -- I'm sure the skull fracture had something to do with that.  Before I could say anything, two officers walked in the room.

I didn't know it then, but the hospital was required to call the police because in the emergency room I told them that my husband had hit me.  With my husband standing right beside me, his arm around me, his hand gripping my bicep, the officers asked me what happened.  My husbands grip tightened.  "I fell." I said.  They told me that in the emergency room I had said that my husband hit me.  I looked at my husband.  He looked down on me smiling.  It may have looked like a loving smile to anyone else but I knew it meant, "If you tell, you'll get worse than you've already gotten."  I looked back at the officers, "I fell."  They knew I was lying.  They had to know that I was lying but what could they do?  They couldn't do anything without my cooperation.

That wasn't the last time he hit me or fractured my skull.  However, the next time he fractured my skull was the last time.  My sister found me a small studio apartment and when I was released from the hospital, she took me there.  I had only just turned twenty ... the marriage lasted a year ... we were separated much of that year.

I once asked a psychiatrist why I was like that ... why would I face off with a man much bigger and stronger than I was, especially being certain he was going to hit me.  He told me lots of things that had plenty to do with childhood events.  The only thing that really stuck with me was, "Because you're spunky."  I asked him if that was another word for stupid.

Why was I thinking about this last night?  Mr. Man came home drunk.  he was furious with me because of the cellphone / stripper incident (see yesterday's entry).  When he's been busted, he turns it all around on me.  He started accusing me of being out with a man Wednesday, when I was actually went to the doctor, the pharmacy, the cigarette store and the grocery store.  I decided to do what I always do -- retreat to the bedroom.  If I just leave him alone, I thought, he'll leave me alone.

I wasn't laying in bed long when he came storming into the room.  He grabbed the blankets and threw them off the bed.  He started yelling at me.  Then I saw it -- he drew his fist back.  I instintively put my hands up -- like I could somehow protect myself from what I thought was coming.  He's never hit me.  NEVER!  His fist came down hard ... but it didn't hit me.  His fist hit the mattress right next to me.  I felt his hand barely brush my side.  I wanted to say, "Go ahead.  HIT ME!  Your ass will go to jail."  But I didn't.  I didn't say a word.  What's more, that's when I remembered my first husband ... so I looked the other way.  He continued yelling.  He was making wild accusations.  He thinks that my "female problems" are because I've been whoring around.  Oh would that it were, then I could just stop whoring around and all that discomfort would go away.  But I didn't say that either.

The odd thing is, once he made his accusations, he left the room and didn't bother me for the rest of the night.  The other thing I found interesting was that he didn't say what he always says ... "Get the hell out motherf*cker!"  I thought it was very curious until we talked this morning and he told me that I had changed in the past two months. Gee ... ya think?  I wanted to tell him that he was a little slow ... I've been changing for five years.  But, I guess he would be right.  The most drastic changes have occurred in the last two months.

We had a long talk and we compromised.  Translation:  I'll change, he won't. 

I know that his behavior is exacerbated by his illness, his medication and his alcoholism.  That doesn't give him license to be abusive but it explains some of it.  I know that there are people who love me who are thinking, "Get out, get out now!"  I know people think I'm crazy for taking a chance and staying.  I know I can't control this behavior ... but I happen to think he can.  He was totally in control last night.  If he hadn't been, he never would have been able to refrain from hitting me. 

Maybe I'm delusional but I honestly believe that I can hang in here for another two months until I've had the lump behind my ear removed.  Of course, if the abuse gets worse, I'll have to get out but if I can possibly stay here until after the surgery, it would make life a lot less complicated.  I have to hang in here ... I don't have any viable alternatives at the moment.

Mr. Man griped that his cellphone was less than adequate.  Since the cellphones are in my name, he convinced me to buy him a new one.  I obliged -- no biggie.  The phone arrived via FedEx yesterday.  Last night I charged it.  This morning he asked me to program it.  When I go to transfer his contact numbers from the old cell to the new cell, I see names like Sapphire, Desire, etc. -- clearly strippers ... excuse me, how terribly politically incorrect of me ... exotic dancers.

Talk about shooting himself in the foot and what a PERFECT opportunity for me to demonstrate how I really feel.  My response?

"Wow!  You have a lot of friends with interesting names."

Like a nice little girl, I programmed his phone for him.  He started scanning the contacts list.

HIM:  I don't see your number in there.

ME:  It's there.

HIM:  Under what?

ME:  Try under "D" for Done.

HIM:  Very funny.

ME:  [surprised and innocent] No?  It's not there?

HIM:  No ... I think I'll try "J" for Jealous?

ME:  [dripping with sarcasm] Oh yeah, I'm so jealous, because THAT'S what I want to do ... completely degrade myself for a buck.

HIM:  [amused] You've done it before.

I was going to snap back, "Yeah, but not one buck at a time!" ... but I was too mad.  See ... that's why you NEVER tell someone you're dating that you were once drug addicted and a prostitute.  It doesn't matter that it was decades ago ... it's just a zinger filed away for a later opportunity to use it against me.

The point is, he tried to get a rise out of me by making sure I saw those names.  He didn't get the reaction he wanted so he had to put me in my place.  I guess he told me, eh?

I say let him tip Sapphire and SHE can pay for his cell minutes because I'm certainly not going to any longer.

How could he be so clueless?  NO, I'm not jealous!  I'm mortified.  I sleep in the same bed with that man.  Ewwww!  *gag*  =^p

The end of summer can't come soon enough for me -- then I'm out of here.

*runs to buy disinfectant in bulk ... enough to sanitize the whole house*

Well, the mystery lump behind my ear is only a semi-mystery now.  It's not a bone protusion and it's not a cyst.  What's left?  A tumor -- but I'm told it doesn't look like cancer.  I'm also told it has blood flow.  I have no idea what that means.

Next ... a CatScan, then a biopsy and then surgery.  I say let's just get in there and take it out but apparently there's a procedure one must follow to satisfy insurance.

I told my doctor that the longer it takes me to get this lump thing resolved, the longer I have to stay in this untenable situation.  She said it probably won't be resolved until the end of summer.  Great ... another two month delay.  Not good.

She also got out her trusty speculum and had a look at my "girl parts".  Just as I thought ... they're still there.  The hormones are helping some but not as much as they should.  She prescribed a ... ummmm ... a steroid suppository to be inserted via the front door, not the back door -- if you catch my drift.  Which leads me to a "funny" story.

I went to the pharmacy to have the prescription filled.  After waiting about ten minutes, the pharmacist calls me over to the "privacy booth".  She then proceeds to tell me that she thinks the doctor may have made a mistake because (and at this point, she becomes very loud) "This is a rectal suppository but she's instructed that you insert it vaginally."  I told her the doctor had discussed it with me.  When she walked away I wanted to tell her that NASA just called and they heard her on the space station.  Geez.  Just tell everybody my business, why don'tcha, lady?

So, joy -- I get to take steroids for the next week.  The doctor also said no sex. I said, 'Ohmigod!  Ever?"  She giggled.  Kinda strange to hear a doctor giggle. I'm glad she didn't do it while my feet were in the stirrups ... which by the way, when the hell did they start putting those things so far apart.  I couldn't do the splits when I was a limber girl ... what makes her think I can do them now at fifty-five?  I swear ... all things GYN are evil!

Now aren't you glad you came to read my blog today?

Last night, I had a nightmare that I was crying ... wailing ... screaming, "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!"  I woke up doing exactly that.  It's no secret what the nightmare was about.  The only time I ever cried, wailed and screamed that was the day I found out my mother was dying ... five years ago yesterday. 

My mother was in the hospital in California.  I had spoken to her Sunday night, June 22, 2003.  She was in so much pain that she couldn't do anything but cry.  I called the nurses station and told them they had better get someone into my mother's room -- that I wouldn't hang up until I knew someone was with my mother.  To be sure they did so, I called my mother's room and a nurse answered the phone.  I thanked her and told her to please give my mother something for the pain.  She asked me if I was the next of kin.  I hesitated.  She asked if I was the emergency contact.  I told her that would be my sister, Anita. 

I hung up and called my sister.  I told her that something was bad wrong ... that we were losing Mama ... Mama was dying.  She said that was impossible.  She had seen Mama that afternoon and Mama was fine.  I told what had happened but she basically dismissed it ... I was being hysterical.  That would be me ... the mentally ill (bi-polar) over-the-top sister ...the one who's too sensitive. When we hung up, I was angry.  I tried to calm down but couldn't.  As I lay in bed, all I could hear was my mother crying.

The next morning, Monday, June 23, 2003, I was alone.  It was early morning.  I was starting the red beans and rice.  The phone rang.  It was my sister.  "Susie," she said, "I think it's time for you to come home."  I didn't say a word other than I would make arrangements and call her back.  I stood in stunned silence for a moment and then screamed ... one long wail, "NO!"

Later that evening, I was driving to the ATM so I would have cash for the trip home.  I was dazed -- I ran a light and missed having an accident by a hair.  I pulled into an empty parking lot, sat and shook my head, turned off the truck lights and cried.  The crying became sobbing, the sobbing became wailing, the wailing became screaming, "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!"  I would not scream that aloud again ... ever, not until last night.

Five years ago today, June 24, 2003, I boarded a plan for Los Angeles to say good-bye to my mother ... my mommy.

(Note -- each date is linked to my original post about those specific days)

I've written about my mother's death again and again and again.  It's always the same ... painful.  Last year, I couldn't even write about it ... only that it was the anniversary.

This year, more than ever, I think about how much my mother loved me and how our time together started in a hospital bed with her cradling me in her arms.  Our time together ended fifty years and five days later ... in a hospital bed, me cradling her in my arms.  Fifty years and five days ago, my mother cooed to me, "Mommy's here."  Five years ago I whispered to my mother, "Mommy, I'm here."

I'm angry today because he's left the house nearly every day for weeks.  Today I want to be alone and he won't go away.  Today I want to cry.  I'm not allowed to cry here ... not without being punished verbally.  He complained once, just months after my mother's death, that I was gearing up to grieve for my mother for the rest of my life.  That hurt.  But the truth is, I don't have to gear up to it ... I will grieve for my mother the rest of my life.  I'll love her the rest of my life and I'll miss her the rest of my life.  She was more than my mother -- she was my friend, my hero ... she was my mommy.  I was her baby girl ... THE baby, her loving and giving child.  Yep, I'll grieve the loss of my mother forever and I'm not going to apologize for it.

She wouldn't want me living this life.  If Mama were alive, she'd help me come home so fast it would make some heads spin.  But Mama's not alive and it's on me to make this life she gave me mean something.  And I will ... you best believe, no matter how hard he tries to break my spirit, I will break out of here and do what my mother always wanted me to do ... the ONLY thing she ever wanted me to do ... be happy.