Not So Speechless

I’m finding myself rather speechless after today. After I had so many words for my sister-in-law, after discussing it with my mom, with my birth mom, with my friends… I don’t even know what else to say. And my readers here (which mostly consist of the friends who already know the dirty of it) I don’t even have the energy to elaborate the whole fight my wife and her sister had over facebook messenger (yeah, she wouldn’t answer my wife’s phone call at all) today. But it was nasty. Nasty enough that my wife for the first time has decided to be done with her family. Just. Done. She’s blocked everyone (or is going to?)

But I’m here to focus on the emotion. I guess… I mostly just want to try to write every day. I mean today I was going to do my Tarot spread but I’m too damn lazy to do that right now.

But anyways, the jist… “Everyone” is keeping their distance from us because of our “life style” of being “too involved” with Star Wars (um do you know us? We love a lot of stuff a lot) and our son’s hygiene issue. Ummm… what hygiene issue? Sometimes he smells like pee because he peed on himself because he’s SEVEN. Yeah some of his clothing is stained and old because it’s hand-me-downs. Kids grow TOO DAMN FAST to be buying new clothing for them all the fucking time. Are they talking about his FAVORITE Batman shirt (that has been handed down from his 25 year old uncle to his 16 year old uncle to his 13 year old uncle and now to him) that has holes in it? I mean, it’s over 20 years old well loved shirt that HE LOVES. I’m not gonna get rid of it because it has a few holes. My favorite Lord Voldemort shirt has holes in it and I still wear it (very little) and keep it because damn, it’s my favorite. It still works as a damn shirt. So does his Batman shirt. Sorry we use every item of clothing for as long as it we can??
Also our kid bathes regularly and you try keeping a 7 year old’s nails clean for more than a day. I can’t even keep my nails clean for a day.

“Your house smells.”
You’ve been to our home TWICE. Once for Blake’s birthday when it was deep cleaned because we knew people were coming with cat allergies so we banished our furry friends to the bedroom and cleaned up ALL THE CAT HAIR WE COULD POSSIBLY COULD. And the second time she came I was sick and hadn’t cleaned in the few days and sure the litter boxes needed to be clean but we hadn’t gotten to it yet. Like everyone has their bad house day.

Also there’s the thing that animal owners have a house that just…smells like animals. Our house smells like cats because we have FOUR CATS. UGH.

Oh what else was there. The whole thing that I’m going to snap. That she was concerned about me so went behind my back to tell her mom who then called Aunna and was just as confused as us… sure she doesn’t read this I think. God I hope not. But fuck, can’t someone who has a disturbed mind get their emotions out and out of their fucking head. Because if I didn’t write it would bottle up inside and explode out of me in a source of self-harm, crying, or trying to kill myself. So… writing it out honestly is better than keeping it in where it hurts. It fucking hurts. I can’t pretend I’m “normal.” I can’t pretend I’m “Okay” to their standers. But damn it, the past two days I was Okay. I felt GREAT. I felt, like I had emotion and I was happy and I was spending time with my son instead of being a lump on the couch, curled up, doing as little as I could because I was so fucking depressed that I wanted to die but had to hide it from my son so he wouldn’t worry.

She’s worried about my son being around me. She’s voiced this before and I called her a cunt. She knew I would call her a cunt again… but if the shoe fits.

Blake is the happiest, most polite, sweet, funny, and kind kid I know. He’s well fed. He’s clean (as a seven year old can be) He has lots of toys. Video games. Stuff animals. He loves our cats. He’s good with animals. He’s smart as fuck. He’s creative… tell me where I went wrong as a mom? Like god damn it I’ve done an EXCELLENT JOB on my part with Blake despite my mental conditions. I put all of my energy into my child that I leave so little for my art but you know what, it doesn’t matter. As long as my kid is happy and knows he’s loved. And he does. I make sure he gets every hug he wants and needs.

Then there was her back handed “she’s in the hospital every week.” uh it’s every few months, thanks for paying attention. And “what if we get the call that she’s dead.” Like do you actually care or are you pretending to care? I have NEVER once felt loved by this family or her. Never. Fucking. Ever. Your significant other’s family is supposed to love you too, right? Right? But no. They think I’ve taken Aunna away from her and changed her. (Yeah I’m blamed for making her trans…) Like they didn’t even knew who the fuck Aunna was obviously. I haven’t changed Aunna as all. Tonight we were sitting with my *other* wife/life long best friend/My Padme, Claire and going through year books and oh man, Aunna and I haven’t changed personality wise at all. We’re still the same dorks we were in High School. Just hotter and wiser.

But fuck her, fuck any of the family that thinks like her (because not all of them do, I know because I asked.) My friends and my family are on our side. They know the truth. They actually give a fuck about Aunna. They give a fuck about me.

And next time… before making up shit that has no merit, just admit you’re scared of people with Borderline Personality Disorder. You’re scared of Manic Depressives.

And if I could say anything to her right now I would say, try being in my head. Try being a victim/survivor of violent and repetitive rape. Try being a survivor of being raped at six fucking years old. Try being a survivor of being just…fucking raped by a friend. Of having a predisposition to sensitivity because you were born with Bipolar. Have BPD because your mom didn’t love you.(or from being raped at 6 or going though a divorce at a young age, which is a lot for a six year old’s head to process and that’s why they think I have BPD)  Oh your anxiety is real fucking cute. I don’t have enough room in my head to deal with your abusive insensitivity. Cunt.

 

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