...All By Myself (Day 4)...a.k.a. For the love of God, Mom, do not show this post to Paw-Paw!

In case you haven't figured it out by now, this time without Saint Jason is quickly becoming my self imposed therapy boot camp. If you are still reading, it's because you either care (Hi Mom.) or because you are some sick voyeuristic fuck who has nothing better to do with your time. (Hi Scott. Hahaaa!!!) Either way, I'm glad you're here. Truly.

So, today's session deals with image (warning...this one may be lengthy).

Last night I posted pictures of myself and all night, I dealt with the regret of doing so. In fact, today, I logged on several times to delete said photos from the post. Why? Because I've got some real issues with my self image. (Blah, blah, blah...it's been said before, I know.)

It's not a new story. Other women have dealt with the same shit I have. It's really all fairly simple. My father was (is) a prick. Nothing was ever good enough for him. Not my mother, not my stepmother and none of the numerous women in his life since. None of his four children could ever be perfect enough for him, but I got special treatment as the "smartest" of his biological spawn. There were great expectations for me and I jumped through flaming hoops to make daddy happy...which never happened.

I married a man just like him. Then married another man just like him, whom I thought was different because he wasn't like the first man I married. The common denominator there was the "selfish asshole" factor, but it would take me a while (and the help of a Saint) to understand. In the meantime, I also dealt with being a victim-of sexual molestation and assault, of adultery, of mental & physical abuse, of severe depression and attempted suicide.

Ain't that a bitch?

Somehow, some fucking way, I'm still here. I'm one of the very (well aware) lucky ones. I'm so thankful for what I have, but I still have some shit to work through.

I don't look in the mirror and see the resemblance to Julia Roberts (???? really???? LOL!) or a pretty person at all. I see every fault imaginable and wonder, when Saint Jason will see it too. And it scares me.

My living room walls are filled with photos of my children; literally dozens of pictures of all four of them throughout the past fourteen years of their lives.

(The Wall of Fame-this is just one wall)

You won't find very many pictures of me, though. I don't like to be in pictures. I hate, literally hate, seeing myself. Except when I'm with my kids.

(These are the first of four snapshots of me with each of my kids. The top is me with my oldest son, Josh. He is almost 14. The next one is me with my Cale, who will be 12 in a few short months.)

(Then we have me with Princess Elena...she will be 7 in nine short days. And then my baby; little man Ian...he's 3.)

What you might notice in all of these, is that none of them, not one, shows my body. This is an issue for me. There was a statement made to me once (that I have forgiven, but never forgotten):

"Maybe if you lost 40 pounds, I wouldn't have to go to a strip club to get excited."

For someone already carrying a lot of scars...this one statement cut deeper than I could possibly explain. Again...FORGIVEN.

It was not the comment that crushed my self esteem into the ground. Not the statement that destroyed me forever. Just another reminder that my 5'2" body isn't model perfect. And not to be graphic or share TMI, but every now and then, when I'm with Jason...I think about these things.

I remembered today about an article I saw last year...it was an article in Glamour magazine that featured plus sized models in a nude photo shoot. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So today I Googled it and found the image again.

This is me.

Ok, so maybe not quite so "luxurious long locks of hair" or "smooth skin" and "clean shaven" (because I'm sorry, but that shit takes time and money that this bitch doesn't have. Come on, you didn't really think I'd make it through the entire post without profanity, did you?)

Anyway...see the model on the bottom row-right? See how her boob sort of sags a bit? So do mine. 38-DDD. That's me. Not perky at all anymore. And stretch marks galore. And see the creases and rolls on the one on the bottom left??? Yep, I have those too. Not to mention a hip to hip scar from the 3 c-sections I've had. I will never have a six pack...ever. NEVER.

I have stretch marks so bad that I look like a mountain lion has had his way with me.

But here is what I know for sure (and God help me if my mother picks this post to show my grandfather how great a writer I am, because he's going to drop dead right now)...Jason thinks I'm sexy.

I know this; am positively convinced of it, not by what he says, but by the way he looks at me when I'm with him. (*WARNING--TMI COMING!) I can see it in his eyes when we are in the middle of having sex, because he never takes his eyes off of me. He thinks I am beautiful. He thinks I am hot. He thinks I am amazing and wonderful and perfect.

I don't get it. I don't understand it and I am still trying to see what he sees, but I trust him with everything I am...that means I believe that he is not some certifiable nut job who's lost his fucking mind and eye sight.

So, there you go. How about tomorrow, we stick with something simple...like landscaping?

p.s. If you want to read a simply bitchy rant by me...just go here. It's much douchyer (my word, don't fuck with me) and lighter reading.

...All By Myself (Day 3)

Ok, so today I realized a few things, and since I'm determined to get some decent sleep, I'm going to bullet point them:

• I need a fucking tutorial on Photoshop. I would love to be able to show you how this blog on Skirt! was featured for about 2.2 seconds on the national main page of their website today, but since I can't figure out how to get my screen print to show any bigger than Smurf size (which is really fucking lame) you're going to have to trust me and just go read it.
• I can do cool shit, like cut my own hair & it wasn't so bad. See & enjoy, because I won't post pictures of myself very often:

(So, not happy with the way I'm aging and therefore have invested too much money in fucking collagen products...shit, balls, douche.)

(This is my fat tongue, which apparently will NEVER need fucking collagen...asshole tongue.)

• I am also awesome at ordering really fantastic t-shirts online. I finally got my t-shirt order from Cafe Press and am very happy--especially about this one...

Alright. Enough fucking pictures for one night. You're going to get spoiled. Don't get used to this shit. It won't last.

Not kidding.

Maybe.

...All By Myself (Day 2)

I can't sleep. I'm very tired, but I can't seem to fall asleep. So here I am, day 2 of my bad ass all by myselfness.

So...what did we deal with today? A migraine, a hole in my favorite sweater (which really didn't have shit to do with the overall situation, but sucked balls anyway).

I took the kids to a fundraiser for Elena's elementary school at our favorite ice cream joint (and totally rubbed it in Jason's face via text because it's his absolute favorite thing in the world & since he's surrounded by snow capped mountains he can SUCK IT!) so that was cool.

Then we came home, did the normal shit (baths, play & bed) and here we are.

Oh yeah, there was also this (for those of you curious, that is my Zoloft, Xanax & Benadryl in the background):


and this (happens to be my dinner & my 2nd glass of wine)...



So overall, I guess it wasn't so bad.

I also wrote this, which was fun; and had some fun on Twitter (fuck off haters, it's fun) today.

Shit. I'm actually starting to bore myself. Maybe I didn't need that Xanax after all. Well, fuck, that was a waste of a perfectly good pill. Going to bed now.

I Can Do It All By Myself! (Day 1)

*Image Source-http:// averysdrawings.wordpress.com

So, in case you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a fairly pushy little cow. I would say heifer, but since I've calved almost a half dozen times now, that would be technically incorrect. (Please don't ever ask me how I learned that differentiation. Thank you.)

Sometimes, I think that I'm just too much to handle and I say things like:

"I think you should use your time in Denver to decide whether or not you really want to keep doing this with me."

(**Side bar--this was before I was back on the Zoloft. Thank you makers of Zoloft. Even more so, thank you Super Saint Jason for NOT telling me to FUCK OFF that very moment for being a super giant douche canoe.)

Anyway. Back to the point of this post.

Saint Jason and I deal with a big issue of mine a lot. I mean, like, a shit ton. It is this. I have lived on my own for exactly...6 months of my entire adult life. That is it. The first two months were when I moved out of my mother's house before I got married the first time and the last four months were after my second divorce and before I moved in with the S.J.

I have always had a roommate or a husband or, as is the case now, a significant living in sin partner.

So I'm struggling with the independence thing a little bit. I am 34 years old. I'm not fucking 25 and trying to find my wings. I've had CAREERS. Not 1 or 2 but a few and they've all gone bust one way or another. I'm back in school and raising my kids in some very creative ways. I'm doing the very best I can in some very difficult circumstances and somehow making it work.

For fuck's sake, I am the most functionally dysfunctional person I have ever known which is what inspired this entire blog endeavor in the first place! So why am I such a fucking wreck?

(That's strictly rhetorical by the way, please do not flood the comments with your suggestions.)

Anyway, Jason is gone for 10 days. I am alone with the youngest two kids during that time and we've got a lot to accomplish. We have events to plan and attend. We have yards to landscape & homework to do. We have dogs to groom (or kill...that part is still totally up in the air) & blogs to write. We have speech therapy to attend & ex's to keep in check. Holy fucking shit, I'm going to need a Xanax.

Oh wait! Did I mention that I'm supposed to do ALL of this without cussing in front of the kids?!? And there is NO ONE here to help me with that part?! What the deuce? Now, that's just bullshit!

Fuck it. I can do it...all by myself.

Melodic Monday

Saint Jason flew out this morning for Denver...he'll be gone for 10 days. This makes me a little sad because I'm going to miss him a lot. This is one of our favorites: there are some days when only Radiohead will make you smile again. Love you, babe.