This American’s Life

5 Feb

Writing is therapeutic for me which means that I am usually in a somber mood when I turn to it. Mostly my life is pretty great. It is great because I choose for the most part to see it that way. A perpetual perceptual inventory of seeing the haves. Blessings counted. Unfortunately, when the lows come, attempting to talk myself out of them by thinking on all the wonderfulnesses in my life only exacerbates my self loathing tumble because now I am sad and I have no reason to be so WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME THEN‽ This spins the sinking into the deep sea of my mind, the darkest of darkness, where those freaky sea creatures that radiate and have human faces or one eye reside. The arguments with myself begin and continue in circles fighting logical me. All approaches and tactics are sampled. There is the Full Metal Jacket, “THIS IS BULLSHIT. DO YOU THINK YOUR GRANDMOTHER (Mom’s mom) HAD TIME TO CRY AND FEEL FUCKING SORRY FOR HERSELF BEING POOR WITH A TERRIBLE HUSBAND AND SEVEN KIDS? NO SHE DIDN’T! SO SUCK IT UP” angle. This usually works when I am having first world problems but not today. Today it just makes me feel even more pathetic. So I move on to coddling, reasoning mode. Softly thinking, “it’s okay. Every one gets the blues at times. You have a wonderful husband who lets you stay home, who is encouraging…” which of course circles back to bizarro me agreeing, thinking, “EXACTLY! So what’s wrong?” I had thought an hour ago that I would write today’s post about depression and addiction, jumping on the PSH train of public opinion haver, but after flipping through my notes I have instead decided to use the short random thoughts, words and other moments I came across from this Life with B.

After another broken night while hiding my swollen eyes over the kitchen sink I ask, “How do you love me?”
I can feel him behind me. “With all of my heart.”
I hand him his smoothie shaking my head that he has done it again. “That’s not what I meant.”
But I know it is true. I know he loves me because everyday he does it so hard and true, with great effort and also effortlessly. In the mornings feeling the heat from his sleeping body, touching that peaceful face I wonder what I am really doing in my waking life because this cannot be real.

I want to cut my hair and dye the ends blonde and shave one side. I want to sing more and be one of those people that I see possibly overtly being themselves. I am rarely myself. I am often B’s wife. I am struggling forever inside of myself with what the world deems appropriate, even though when I look at the world I see so much wrong. So little love for one another as fellow star dustians.

B’s rules for driving:

A. Everybody should learn to drive on a stick shift

B. Every time you renew your license you should have to take at least a written test

C. Every ten years you have to get your butt in a car with someone who knows what the hell they are doing so they can watch you drive…terribly.

He speeds up suddenly creeping on the person who just got in front of us.
“Why did you do that?”
“Cause I was trying to cut them off.”
“But why?”
frustrated, “Because what’s wrong with being behind me?!”

Looking at houses******
“It looks interesting if I were gay or in IT.”

On idiots*****
“A little Darwinism never hurt anybody, except maybe dummies.”

“I slept like a baby. A baby with a beard.”

That all the traditions I have been taught fade and die each year my family becomes more estranged and each year we aren’t pregnant. Having our own children has become a laughable ‘for instance’ and although we talk about how they will be, planning for them realistically has evaporated from real conversations.

10/28*******The sex lead in of my romantic novel about the hippie from the community co-op.
With his John Lennon glasses and his headband made from an old yellow T-shirt, his dirty artist face scruff…his musk.

10/16*******In the bathroom
Crying reading a FB post about an orphan
I love
Scared still
You’ve got to stop doing that

B on a news story he heard of a group following poor GPS directions and ending up on an airstrip

“What is wrong with people’s eyeballs‽ I wish those people would just DIE already! Seriously. Let’s just weed out the idiots and get on with civilization. I’m tired of half assery.”

Separate purchases of two adult men.

One pineapple, a mango and a bottle of red wine.

Apricot face scrub, one single 12oz bottled beer.

While trying to explain to my Canadian friend why a photoshopped picture of Michelle and Barack Obama to look like the Planet of the Apes is super offensive.

“I’ve never seen the movie.”
“you don’t have to have seen the movie.” flustered
“But isn’t that the point of Planet of the Apes? That the apes ran a whole planet?”

face palm, subject change

Dream: She says “you left me here.” And in the forest from above the fire spelled out, “Just lost hope.”

Twenties: Drunk young and invincible immediately followed by shame guilt and a bad case of crabs.

“They didn’t have coffee. I’ve never had an Americano before.”
“Yes, you have.”
“NOPE. I’ve had coffee and I’ve had water, but never together.” (which is totally false)

Even now I cry when he says, “I miss you”, as if I have waited forever to hear the words. But it is that I waited my life to hear a man like him feel them.

I come home from my trip. He looks at me and sweetly says, “I am out of clean clothes.”


When your husband is taking a pre-sleep nap and your kambucha is fermenting.

Another hispanic health disagreement.

“Are you looking it up?”
“If it’s on I’m not going to believe it.”

Random, right? I do feel better.

B photobombing a practice shoot.

B photobombing a practice shoot.

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