Shit Just Got Real

I'm about to blow a gasket and I need to vent.  So guess what, you get to hear me bitch.

The landlord started this no drinking thing on work days.  And at first, I didn't think he could do it, but to my surprise he did it.  He was doing super good.  Drinking flavored waters, juice, coffee...whatever but beer.  I was actually really proud of him.  Going from 20+ beers EVERY night to only on the weekends...it is a big move.

But it only lasted about 7 weeks.  While he isn't drinking every night like he use to, he is finding reasons to start his weekend drinking...early.  If he doesn't workout, he will drink.  If he gets home early from work, he drinks. Lame excuses to feed his addiction.  And when he drinks, he DRINKS.  It's like he is trying to catch up for the nights he wasn't drinking.  And that is just annoying as fuck.  He because a total moron who can't walk, stand, talk, think or has control of his bathroom needs.

Few weeks ago a good friend of ours came to visit us from Chicago and we had some deep conversations.  One of them being about the landlord and his drinking.    My friend pretty much told me that the landlord has a serious drinking problem and I am pretty much helping him kill himself.  My reaction to this was mixed.  At first I was like, how am I at fault for his addiction to drinking?  But as he explains it, I allow him to do it and make it easy for him.

If he falls, I pick him up.  He pees himself, I help clean himself.  He makes a mess and I clean it.  He needs a ride, I drive him.  Whatever he needs, I do it.  And because of this, my anger towards the landlord has grown and my tolerance for his behavior has decreased...greatly, which just makes me more anger.

I don't understand how someone can get so drunk...EVERY time they drink.  I understand getting a buzz.  But I don't understand when you lose all reasoning.

Just tonight he started drinking at 5pm.  By 10pm he was so hammered that he can't stand and fall on top of the pizza you just ordered.  And once on the floor after taking out the coffee table, the side table with the food on it, lay right where you fell and keep eating.  Of course I lost my cool and tried to make him clean up the mess, which was pointless.  The man just fell on top of his food and he is still eating not  noticing he has fallen.  He tries to clean by wiping the floor with a paper towel no where near where all his food landed.

All I could do was just scream at him.  Bunch of mean ass shit flying out of my mouth telling him he needs fucking help and get control of his drinking.  I was so mad that I actually smacked him on the back of the head like they do on NCIS.  And he and I got in a shoving match.  And had he and I not walked away, I am not sure just how far it would have gotten.  I seriously think both of us might have taken things way out of control.  That I was anger enough to fight him and he was drunk enough to possibly hit me.  Shit got real for a second.  Kind of took me back to my step father and his drinking.

He finally just went to bed, leaving all of his mess.  Food on the floor, crap knocked over and tables tipped over.  I just sat there...frozen.  I always believed that not all drunks are the same.  And I still believe that.  But the real impact on me is that drunks stresses me out.  Drunks, bring out the super bitch in me.  Drunks, makes me take care of them.

For the first time in 8 years I am thinking that, maybe this isn't best situation for me.  That maybe I can't live with someone who drinks to excess every time they drink.  That I can't/shouldn't be around this.  It is no longer endearing, funny, tolerable.  It's turning me into someone I don't like and I'm not even the person drinking.

But how do you remove yourself from the situation when it involves someone you love and care about more than anyone you ever cared about in your whole life, without removing yourself from them?  How do you avoid the pain it will cause?  How do you unlink yourself from the problem when the problem is so attached and so much about the person you love?  How?

I'm still a bit shaky from the whole event that just happened.  And I am sure he won't remember a thing in the morning.  

Not Ready To Make Nice...

I know it has been awhile since I posted anything.  I had planned on telling my story (nightmare).  Thought it might be good for me but I found it to be more difficult than I planned.  It brought back memories that I had put away and feelings I thought I had dealt with.  Not feelings of sorrow or sadness but anger.  It was shocking, actually.  I really thought I had put all of this behind me, that it was far away enough to not invoke feelings of any kind.  To be honest with you, I am not sure if I will finish telling you my story.  No one, not even my BFF (landlord), kids, family or the ex-husband knows the whole story.  The portion with my step father is nothing really.  Nothing compare to what happened afterwards.  I won't wish it on anyone.  I think I might need time to process this more.  To maybe really think it out, deal with the emotions it seems to bring up.  Like the Dixie chicks sang, I'm not ready to make nice...not yet I guess.

In other news...life is good.  Work is great.  I love my job and I am damn good at it.  Personal life is good too.  I am in a good place and really never been happier.  People say the economy is bad but I am not really feeling it.  I got a new car (Jeep Wrangler...my dream car), got a fancy new cell phone and tablet.  And of course I have my beautiful shoe room...yes I said ROOM.  I turned the spare bedroom into a shoe room.  400 and counting...lol (don't judge me).

I feel blessed these days.  I understand there are others who are suffering and having a hard time.  I don't know how I was able to avoid the pit falls of the down economy.  I am cheap, that's for sure but I don't deny myself the things I want.  I just research and find the best price possible.  I have friends now who gives me lists to find them the items they want for the best price.  those shoes you see in the picture...most expensive ones are the tennis shoes at $66 a pair.  The rest average about $30 a pair.  I am not a label or brand whore.

Those of you who read this blog know that I use to be fat (240) and had the gastric bypass.  I'm currently at 120-125.  In Feb it will be 3 years since the surgery.  While I would love to lose another 10-15 pounds but I am not unhappy with the size or weight I am currently.  I feel...pretty and attractive...now.  I feel confident and proud...if that makes any sense.  I'm 38 and never been in better shape.  I even cut off all my hair...super short.  For whatever reason, short hair to me screams confident.  I am not sure if I am in love with the new do but I am doing my best to rock it.

I have mellowed out in my older age.  I hardly go out anymore and enjoy staying home.  I actually cook and clean now and have become somewhat... domesticated.  I drive the landlord crazy with my cleaning.  I get on him all the time about picking up after himself.  I'm pretty hard on him about it...lol.  but it keeps the house clean and organize.

My life is typical and boring these days...lol.  And that is ok with me.  I guess I had to grow up at some point.

Chapter 3 Broken

I daydreamed about it all the time now. How to be free and what it would feel like. What it was to be normal. I hadn’t known normal for so long. What it felt like not to be mad, angry and full of hate. Not to feel lost, alone and when I allowed myself to be…sad. At this point I was 5.

My attempt was not planned out well and failed. After school one day I didn’t go home. I decided that I didn’t want to go home and just didn’t go home. I roamed the city but not knowing where to go or really what to do I didn’t roam far from home. It was getting dark and I was hungry. I saw a store that had sweets displayed in the window and I walked right up to the big window and knelt down to look at all the delicious treats, I could almost taste them. They looked so good. Sweet rice cakes in different bright colors, glazed with a sugar coating. I even think I was humming as I tracked my fingers on the window. Then it happened. The pain was so shocking it knocked the breath out of me. I screamed in pain and something grabbed me from behind by my hair, yanking me backwards. It was him. He had found me.

He had found me and being so angry for having to take time to find me he kicked me with all his might, grabbed my hair and yank me towards him. I barely made out who it was that had caused the pain through the tears but I didn’t need to see who. It could only he him. Only he could be so cruel and cause so much pain. He didn’t let go of my hair all the way home. He walked at a pace I hardly could keep up with, not that I had a choice. Half the time he was dragging me because I wasn’t able to keep up or I trip over my own feet trying to keep up. He didn’t say a word, just the death grip on my hair…dragging.

I was only released from his grip when we got back home. My mother in tears, worried. I almost felt guilty…almost. She shook me yelling at me. To be honest I can’t remember what she said. I assume it was about how I worried her, and why I would do such a thing and why I would disobey. I didn’t say a word. I just stood there. I didn’t have anything to say. I was only angry that I was found and a bit fearful…he was too quiet.

He hadn’t said a thing to me since he found me. And since he delivered me home he hadn’t move towards me, looked at me or anything. It was the quiet before the storm. He calmly put out his cigarette he was smoking and got up and walked towards me. Once he started walking my mother knew what was coming and while I was calm she began to talk to him. Telling him I won’t run away again and that I was just a little girl. That I’m a good girl and just made a mistake and it would never happen again. I didn’t say a thing. He didn’t pay attention to my mother. It was as if she didn’t exist, just me. His whole focus was on me. It seemed to take forever for him to reach me. I didn’t like this calm person. I knew the loud angry, full of rage person but this calm, quiet person…I couldn’t predict. He stopped once he was right in front of me. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at his feet. While most of the time I made eye contact with him when he was full of rage, this time it was different and I couldn’t bring myself to face him. My mother tried to step in front of me and he pushed her aside, well pushed. He grabbed my one of my arm with force and slapped me across my face with a force of a hammer. I didn’t make a sound, it wasn’t anything new to be slapped by him, I was used to that. But what came next I was not prepare for. I don’t know how many slaps landed across my face but that didn’t get the reaction he wanted, he began to punch. Those dropped me to the ground. And he would pull me back up and punch me again. When I could stand on my own he just held me up and when he got tired of holding me up he let me drop to the ground and began to kick me. My mother would throw herself at me trying to protect me but he would just hit her move her out of the way and go back to beating me. I couldn’t help it, I cried. I tried to take a defensive pose when I could but the rate of the blows were so fast I couldn’t prepare for them all. And after what seem like forever, I didn’t have the strength to protect myself. It seemed easier to just lay there and take the kicks, punches. Maybe if I just laid there he would stop sooner.

Finally he stopped, sweating from his effort. He left the room. My mother came over to me sitting me up, crying, scared to touch me that she might cause me more pain. I actually allowed myself to curl into her arms…crying. I could barely move, it hurt everywhere. I was bleeding, swollen and broken. The worst was over…so I thought.

He returned, still sweating, still quiet. But he didn’t come back empty handed. He had gone to the utility room and brought back a kitchen knife. Fear hit my mother and I at the same time. I couldn’t help it. I cling to my mother and she held me tighter. I could look away from the knife in his hand, until he spoke for the first time.

“You will never do this again. I’m going to make sure of it.”

He said it so calmly, so softly. What did he mean “make sure of it”? there wasn’t anything I would put pass him. My mother went crazy. She began to yell and ramble. I didn’t pay attention. I just stared at him and the knife. He walked closer to me and that put my fears into overdrive and my mother’s rambling. Instantly I began to back away, so I thought but I wasn’t moving. I was frozen. It wasn’t until he grabbed my right foot that my body became alive. With everything I had I tried to pull free but he held my foot.

“You can’t run away with toes,” he said to me. He had the most cold, calm look about him. Like this was nothing.

At that very moment two things happen. One, relief. Relief that he wasn’t trying to kill me just cut my toes. And two, freaked. Freaked that his crazy asshole was going to cut my toes. I know freaked might be a stupid word but I was beyond scared. Scared is something you feel having to tell your parents you crashed their car or that you got an F on your final. I was freaked.

Everything happened so fast. My mother was screaming, crying, pleading, begging. And for the first time I began to follow suit. I begged, pleaded. I promised to never do it again, that I be a good girl.

“I promise I will never do it again! I will be good. Please dad!”

Then he stopped. He still had my foot but he stopped yanking my foot towards him. He stared at me. My mother stared at him, I stared at him. Forever seemed to pass by before anyone moved. I don’t think I even breathe. Then he loosen his grip on my foot and let go of my foot. Afraid to move too quickly I slowly moved my foot back towards me. Without even losing eye contact he got up. Stood there and stared at my mother and I for a few seconds, then left the room. He didn’t return for a few days.

Just Cause

I have been thinking about a lot of things as of late. First, I purchased a sewing and serger machine. I want to go back to sewing and maybe get in touch with a dream I had when I was younger...make my own clothes.  Ok, my dream when I was young was to design for Barbie. Go ahead laugh but my Barbie had the best clothes in the neighborhood. Fashion design was something I wanted to do. But I didn't think I could be a top fashion designer. Very few make it to the top and become a household name or an icon, which was the only type of designer I wanted to be at that time. Now, I just want to make clothes for me. Take a design I like and change it to suit me and my sense of style. I'm excited to start.
Second, I turned 37 and have become a freak about my wrinkles. Its not like I have a lot but I'm worried. With 40 just around the corner, I guess I'm becoming more aware that I won't stay looking young forever. I was told by number of people at a party a week back that I looked under 30 (thank you drunk people). Nevertheless, I went out and got anti-aging facial products. Getting older sucks.
Third, while I have become a nicer (to a point) person to others I have become very short and mean to the landlord. When he does something to annoy, piss off or anger me I say the most horrible things to him. My ability to deal with his selfish drunken ways has become zero. Back in the day, I use to think (for the most part) his drunken behavior was funny now I just want to stab him in the face with a pencil. I need to work this.
Fourth, I cut my hair...22 inches. Yep, gone. And while I like it, I miss it. So now the question is, do I grow it back and go through the awful growing out stage or embrace the idea that I look pretty good with shorter hair and keep it, which is more flattering for a women in her late 30's.
Fifth, get an iphone or keep the android phone now that Sprint has the iphone...I can't decide. Of course, I won't make a switch until my contract is up because there is no way in hell I will pay full price for an iphone. My biggest issue with the iphone...not 4G ready and no slide out keyboard.
Sixth, do I want a tablet/ipad? Do I need it? Will I use it? Need to do more research on this.

Jobs

I don't understand.  They say people are having a hard time finding jobs that there isn't jobs to be found.  Yet, when I go look there are TONS of job listings.  I was looking at State of Wisconsin, City of Milwaukee and federal job and the job listings went on and on.  I didn't even hit the private sector.  Where are these people looking for jobs?  I was grant you that the pay may not be up to what you use to make back when Clinton was in office but a job is a job right?  I mean if I were to loose my job today, for one, I can live on unemployment without much problems (just means no more shoes for me), two I am pretty sure I can pick up a waitressing/bartending job somewhere (use to make great money just no bennies) and three I would be sending out my resume until every HR department knew my name.  I don't know, I never had a problem finding a job.  Work is work and yes, there are times when you aren't working at your dream job or even a job that you are proud to say you are working at your age (waitressing).  So I ask again, why is the unemployment rate so high?  Where are these unemployed people looking to find jobs?  Are they even looking?  Are their skills so specialized that jobs that fit them aren't there?  Maybe you should apply for jobs that aren't in your normal skilled trade.  I mean if you aren't working is waitressing or flipping burgers really that shameful?  At least you are working.  I'm just saying. 

HSN

I have been watching HSN the pass few days and found some amazing products from Ready To Wear. One is a lash extension and another is a brow liner which doesn't wipe off without soap and water. I'm so getting them. With my stub for lashes and years of over plucking, I'm super excited to try them both!

Ugh

My back is killing me. It's like I need to crack it but I can't seem to get it to crack. You would think with losing half my body weight that I won't have back problems. But my friend said something interesting to me.

Friend: With all the weight you lost, you don't have the strength, weight, to off set your huge boobs. I mean you are still a D cup. With you being so small now, it doesn't surprise me your back hurts more now than it did before, when you were fat.

Ok, for one, I don't like the fat anymore. I don't know something magical happend once I started to lose weight that I don't like the word anymore. And two, is it possible that I could be in more pain than I use to be? I men I did lose some boobs. I went from a 42DD to a 34D. Because I don't have the big belly and ass to off set the weight of the boos am I going to have more problems with the tits?

I am not against the idea of getting a smaller pair of boobs. Actually I would welcome it. While most women would love to hae big boobies, I am not one of them. Do you know how hard it is to find a 34D in a bra? A cute bra? do you know how hard it is to find tops that fit? If it fits in the boobs then it's too big in the belly. If it fits in the belly hen it's too small around the boobs and one piece clothing like a dress? Forget it.

My tits look like banana, National Geographic titties anyways. Getting them smaller and perkier won't be bad at all and have it all covered by insurance...oh hell yeah!

In the meanwhile, someone give me some help with this back pain. It's annoying and actually really hurts.

Chapter 2 The New Daddy

From what I know, being a single mother of a daughter (not a son) and of mix race in South Korea, you aren’t a super catch. As I had said before in the Asian culture, you shouldn’t really marry out of your race. I don’t know why this is. But my mother being half white and half Asian didn’t make her dateable. But she did find a man, a man who was divorced with three kids. He was tall for an Asian man. Long and lean with shape features. He was older than my mother, I remember that. Maybe 10+ years or so. And he was different as night and day from my father. Where my father was gentle and kind, my step father was hard and cold. He was a man who believed a woman’s role was behind her husband, shadowing him, pleasing him and breathing and living for him and his wants and needs. And he didn’t care for me. I was not a son, and I was not his. I was everything he hated. I was bright, I was beautiful and I was strong willed. My mother had taught me to be strong woman, to never settle for anything less than what I wanted and what my heart desired. I was clever and had been spoiled all my life. My mother worked hard to give me everything I wanted. The pretty clothes, the toys, along with a roof over my head and a chance for an education. To be better than she ever could be or even dreamed of. And this was everything my step father hated.

He was a drunk, abusive and intolerant of anything less than being totally submissive to his will. At the beginning my mother was the target of all his rage. He be gone for days and when she would question where he had been he would beat her for not minding her own business and questioning his authority. I was little, around 4. I remember watching him giving my mother blows after blows. Sometimes, I try to protect her other time I sat in the corner in fear, unable to move. If she knew there was going to be a fight she would send me downstairs to the landlord's and get me in the morning. She would have new marks on her face, arms and body. A split lip, a new cut. She did what she could to protect me. But after awhile it got to be too much for her. She had aged it seemed like over night. She skin seemed to loose the glow, the youthfulness. The lines on her face grew deeper and the circles under her eyes darker. Her body thin and fragile. Her spirit gone, the joy and laughter non-existence. She became just a body without a soul. She became a drunk herself to dull the pain. To dull the physical pain as well as the emotional pain, of what her life had become. I understood, even at that young of an age why she wasn’t really a mother to me anymore. Why she didn’t sit and comb my hair anymore or that the loving mother I once knew was gone. I was him, he had taken that. He had taken my mother one blow at a time. He had taken everything that was beautiful about her with his fists. He hadn’t wanted a wife, he had wanted a slave. Something he could own and completely control. And he had thought she was the prefect victim. What a better target than a mother with a child, a girl at that, with little means to make it on their own.

My step father’s rage became more frequent and more violent. And it no longer was just targeted at my mother. I’m guessing that it wasn’t so much fun to beat on someone who no longer fought back. That took the punishment without question. The thrill for him was breaking the spirit of the person he was putting into submission. And my mother had given up; she had no will to fight back. I on the other had been a different story. While I didn’t try to engage his anger, I didn’t take it sitting down. I challenged him, stand up to him. In the beginning, I would cry, beg and pleated for him to stop. But after awhile, the pain of the physical abuse was nothing. His rage became mine and I would fight back. Of course he always win. But I wasn’t going to be like my mother. I wasn’t going to let him win the war, maybe the battle but never the war. And that fueled his rage even more. No matter how many times he hit me, no matter how painful his blows were, I didn’t let it show and I never backed down. I would scream at him, tell him what a bad person he was. I would question his answers and actions. Somewhere along the line I become my mother protector. When she wasn’t so into the bottle she do her best to protect me from his anger but it never helped much. She would just end up getting the beating as well as me.

I never understood why she stayed with him. Why she didn’t leave. And how she could lay next to him at nights after everything he had done. In Korea, most homes aren’t like homes here in America. You all shared one room. We had three rooms. The summer room, which was the biggest. It had my parent’s bed, a TV and a space where my mat was for me to sleep on (I didn't get to sleep on a real bed until 1983). You did everything in this room. In the winter time you moved to the winter room, which was half the size of the summer room. But the floor was concrete and you could warm the room by burning a very large piece of coal under the room which heated the floor. And there was the utility room. That had the running water, where you made your food and bathe. The toilet was downstairs, not even a toilet really but an outhouse. Just a hole in the ground that you squatted over to do your business. It was shared by everyone, us the landlords and customers of the restaurant. I lay there at nights thinking of my hatred for my step father and how he would die while having to listen to him make love, if you can even call it that, to my mother. I never understood why and how she would allow herself to be with him. I guess she didn’t really have a choice. I mean, a man like him just took what he wanted. I doubt he asked for permission.

Every once in awhile my mother would send me away for the summer to go stay with a man. I have no idea if he was family or not. I don’t think so. The man looked nothing like my mother. He was 100% Asian. I called him uncle. He lived by the beach in a busy city. I spend hours on the rooftop of his building he lived in playing with my paper dolls. From the rooftop I could see the beach and he only took me once. The beach was filled with people. All different kind of people. Everyone looked happy, enjoying their time. I fell in love with the beach.

My uncle was the man who taught me how to tell time. Back then there weren’t digital clocks. It was the old fashion hand clocks. And when I won’t get the time right, I was punished. Bamboos stick cross my palms. It didn’t take me long to learn. The stink of the bamboo slapping across your hand was more painful than anything. More painful than my step fathers blows. Maybe because, my uncle wasn’t hitting me to just hurt me but to teach me something he believed I needed to know. Maybe because I knew I could avoid the punishment if I just learned to give the right answers. That it wasn’t punishment for no reason. That it disappointed him when I didn’t get the correct answer. At least there was a reason to his type of pain he caused. I understood his punishments and why, it hurt more even if it physically didn’t do the damage that my step father inflicted. But still, it was another man causing me pain. It didn’t really matter if I understand his reasoning or not. It seemed all men were the same. They just liked hitting women. But my time with my uncle wasn’t all bad. It was warmer where he lived than where my mother lived. And the punishment weren’t often. And once I learned to tell time, they ended. Then I was free to sit on the rooftop and just daydream about the beach, soaking in the sun and playing with my paper dolls.

It didn’t take long for me to really become emotionally distance towards people. My mother wasn’t my mother anymore. She was a ghost. And my step father, well he was a piece of shit. School became my only escape from my life. The only place that I felt normal. And I loved school. I excelled at school. I was smart, so they told me. I was always at the top of my class. There wasn’t a subject I wasn’t good at. Language, math, science, art and music, you name it and I was good at it. All of it. I was liked by other students and the teachers. I was perfect. Smart, welled dressed, pretty and popular. Little did people know my home life was a nightmare.

I wished my life was like this all the time. Just happy and simple. Not having to worry about a mother who was never mentally around, a step father who likes to use me as a punching bag and not living in fear and anger. I daydreamed about it a lot. What life was like without all the chaos that seems to surround me. Living at the beach without a care in the world. Just to feel like I did when I was at school.

Then it occurred to me, why can’t it be like that all the time? Why do I need to live the way I was living? What was stopping me? I wasn’t emotionally attached to anyone anymore. My mother was lost to me. If she wasn’t drunk, she was all doped on pills and drugs. The only time she seemed to show any signs of life was when she was crying, which was only when my step father wasn’t around. And my step father? Who gave a shit. He could get eaten by a pack of wild dogs and I won’t have cared. I won’t even lift a finger to help. In fact I would stand back and laugh as he slowly and painfully died. No one truly cared about me, really. And I didn’t care for anyone. The only person, I believed to care about me, my father was gone. He had left me behind. Left my mother and me behind. There wasn’t anyone else.

Chapter 1 The Beginning

I'll start as far back as I can remember and work my way forward. Things are fuzzy and there will be gaps but you will get the general picture.

My mother was half British and South Korean. From what I understand my grandmother was British and my grandfather South Korean. If they were married or not, I don't know. I don't remember either one of them. I barely remember my mother. My father, a South Korean was a solider in the military. While my memory of my father is limited, I believe it was a loving relationship. He was a good dad. Loving as a father can be, from what I remember. But as my life seem to go he was there one day and gone the next. As the story goes, he died while serving his country. I have no idea if that is true. I like to believe it is. I like to think I came from a loving union of two people. That I started my life from good beginnings. From a good man and a good woman.

I can't picture his face.  Its fuzzy when I try to remember. So I just fill in the blanks. I picture him handsome, strong and brave. A good man who provided for his family that loved his wife, eventho only half asian and his daughter. If you know anything about asian cultures, they don't care to marry out of their own race. I'm sure it wasn't easy for my mother being of mix races and hit the jackpot when she found a good man who didn't care she wasn't pure of race.
My mother was beautiful. Maybe not to other asians but to me she was. And once my father was gone I was her whole life.

My short life with my father and mother, together as a family was good. We lived well, middle class I would guess. Our home was by the mountains which could be viewed from the windows of our home. It was amazing...at least that's how I remember it. The house was filled with laughter and love. My mother would sit me by the window and comb my long hair, telling me how beautiful I was. How I looked more like my father, meaning more asian, and I would find a good korean husband someday like my father. But those heartwarming memories were soon to end.

After my father was gone we moved to the city. I must have been around 3 or so. My mother had to find work. She sewed. We lived aboved a seafood resturant. It wasn't a bad place. No mountain views, actually no view at all but rooftops and the dirty city. The landlord downstairs were nice and had kids my age I could play with. They watched me while my mother worked. She was gone a lot.

My days were spent mostly playing and watching the different people prepare all sorts of sea creators for the resturant. I saw turtles beheaded, octopus sliced and diced and all sorts of fish. The turtles interested me the most. They take a turtle out of the water bucket and wait. Wait for the turtle to stick its head out and than...whack! The headless turtle would go back into the bucket. The blood would turn the water red, like kool-aid. They still swim for a bit, headless but then nothing and the next one would be on the chopping block. Why this interested me, I don't know. I think I was facinated by the turtles and how even without its head it could still swim, even if it was only for seconds. The sound of the knife coming down to behead the turtle always made me jump. They never missed. Years of practice insured 100% kill rate. I never saw what they did after that to the turtles. I wasn't allowed in the resturant part often. But every once in awhile I got to see. People would be dining. I remember seeing people eating octopus. Some cooked but mostly raw. The tenticles still moving on their plate. They wrap the tenticles tight around chop sticks, dip it in a sauce and eat it. I often wondered what it tasted like, the texture. Not that the resturant was fancy but we never ate there. I would guess we didn't have the money to.

Life with just my mother and I wasn't bad. She still combed my hair everyday and filled my head with dreams of a loving husband who would take care of me and love me as my father did my mother. I was bright for my age and from what others told me, beautiful. It was always "beautiful girl, she won't have trouble finding a good husband".  While it was nice to be thought beautiful, I wondered if that's all it really mattered. My mother was beautiful, at least in my eyes, and love and happiness had only granted her a short amount of time. She worked hard to make sure I had everything. The long hours and being a single mother had taken its toll. While she as still young and attrative the stress was starting to show on her face.

My mother had big dreams for me. To marry well. That my "prettiness" would catch me a husband with means. That I would have a better life than she had.  I'm guessing that she didn't grow up with a lot. To think of it she didn't talk about her parents much, actually it was rare. I don't think I ever saw them. Maybe why I can't remember what they look like. I think life wasn't easy for her before my father. And now with him gone the hope and happiness disappeared for her. So I became her great hope.

I wonder what she would think if she knew me now? Would she be pleased at how my life turned out? Or would she be disappointed?

Been a long time

Been forever since I have posted anything. And yes I'm still alive. My life has been boring. Work and of course my normally life with my landlord.  I'm doing from my phone so if there is a lot of errors...fuck you. You shouldn't be reading my blog if you don't like spelling and grammer errors.
So, what's new? Nothing really. I'm down to 120 pounds. Not quite the 105 I wanted to be but I'm working on it. Still vomiting when I eat protein. My doctors don't have an answers or a solution for it.
I have been thinking a lot about my life lately. Not so much the future but the past. I'm not sure why just been thinking and remembering. I'm thinking of writing it all down (on here of course) and having a record of it. As I get older the memories become more faded. And while I try my best to live in the past, I have been discovering it has shaped more of my life than I want to admit. It kind of explains a lot of my dealings with relationships, people and life in general. Its an interesting journey I have been on and maybe its time to say it out loud. Sharing it with all of you, really isn't the goal because as you know I could give two shits but for me. To remember more, reflect and maybe discover answers to questions I didn't even know I had. I wonder what other people do if they had a colorful past? Is it worthwhile to dig back? To bring up old demons, bad dark memories and maybe even emotions I have carefully (or not so carefully) packed away in the depths of my brain? I'm thinking why the hell not but...what might happen? This is what I have been thinking of for a few months.
If I do think, it may be all I blog about for awhile. It might take me until the end of the year to write almost 37 years worth of shit.
Anyone else done this and if so how did it go? Was it enlightening?