Six Word Saturday…

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“ Love:  ‘til death do us part…”

Memories…

Like the corners of my mind…

Misty water colored memories…

Of the way we were…

Um…did I just quote a Streisand song? 

Fucking old, I am!

I was around four or five years old at my aunt’s house standing in the doorway dreading that my mom was about to be there to pick me up.  I stayed at my aunt’s house while my parents worked and I loved being at her house.  My cousins were there, and we were always at their activities after school…pep rallies, practices, their friends were always over.  My aunt had the luxury of being a stay at home mom, and I had the luxury of benefiting from her parenting as well.  Every day when my mom picked me up, I cried.  I begged to stay at “Me-Me’s” house.  I loved being in the center of the hub-bub that went on there. 

It was nothing personal against my mom.  I didn’t hate her.  I just loved staying at my aunt’s house.  When the image of motherhood popped into my head as a young girl, it was my aunt’s rendition of motherhood that I wanted to emulate.  Again, nothing against my mom, my aunt could afford to be and had the means to be the kind of mother I admired.  Now that I’m thinking of it, maybe it was a bit personal as an older child…but, as a four or five year old, I’m convinced  I was innocent. 

There I stood in the doorway, already negotiating with my aunt to allow me to stay.  My mom walked through the door, weary after a long day at work and I could see the disappointment on her face.  I could see the, “I just don’t want to deal with this, for the love of all that is holy, child, just get in the damn car and make this easy on the both of us,” wrinkled up on her brow. 

Yet, one thing about four and five year olds, is that they are extremely selfish.  It wasn’t in me to respond to my mother’s needs, I wanted to fulfill my own needs.  I began to cry and pout looking back and forth between my mother and aunt.  The daughter in me desperately not wanting to disappoint my mother, but, the kid in me just wanting to have fun. 

My mother erupted, “FINE.  STAY.  YOU’D RATHER BE HERE WITH HER ANYWAY,” she turned, left, slamming the door behind her. 

At the time, the little girl in me felt horrible.  It was such an awful feeling.  I’d gotten what I wanted, but, I’d hurt my mother.  I felt guilty.  I felt sad.  But, that little part of me was relieved that I’d gotten what I wanted. 

Looking back on this memory now, as an adult, I’m the one who feels angry.  Angry that my mother placed her misguided emotions onto the shoulders of a five year old child.  I was too little to carry those for her, yet she dumped them on me, and left me there to soak in them.  She took it personally that I wanted to stay, and she dumped all of her feelings onto an innocent child.  Purposefully. 

This is the big problem I have with my mom.  I know she does these things purposefully, yet I don’t know if she’s aware of the impact of her actions.  Even when I try to explain to her what this memory means to me, she says that I’m blowing it out of proportion. 

It’s just that.  My memory.  My perception that makes it my reality…of the beginnings of this dysfunctional relationship between my mom and I. 

Memories…

Misty water colored memories. 

Like the corners of my mind. 

Addictive…

Tattoos. 

They are most definitely addicting. 

A month ago, after passing my final test of nursing school, I had my seventh tattoo done.  A tattoo that was fourteen years in the making.  A tattoo that represented the end of my journey into becoming a part of the medical profession. 

Yesterday, I got my eighth piece done. 

Three little birds.  “Bird” was my nickname growing up, in fact, much of my family still calls me “Bird” even now.  However, I plan to get another much more colorful bird tattoo in honor of my childhood nickname. 

This piece is more for another reason.  Bob Marley’s song, “Three Little Birds” was played at my graduation from nursing school after the newest crop of soon to be nurses walked across the stage, and I just love it.   The song’s message?  Always apropos, “Every little thing….is gonna be alright.” 

Such a good message, and for a tattoo lover, no better reminder than inked right on my shoulder.  In life, no matter what, no matter who, no matter how…♫…don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing…is gonna be alright…♫

So, yeah…they are totally addictive, and I’m hooked.  Now if  only my family would get on board with it.  When I came home with my last one, The One Who Gets Away With Murder looked at the large reddened , freshly tatted spot on my back and with sincerity, said, “Mom…you have your nose pierced and tattoos everywhere.  I don't want you to be one of those with tattoos all over her arms and stuff.” 

I looked down at that sweet eight year old face and where the shame should’ve been, sarcasm erupted and I replied, “Awww…I’m sorry sweetheart, you don’t get to pick your parents!” 

To blog or not to blog…

I struggle with whether or not I should blog about my mom.  As I said in an earlier post, we’ve been estranged for around 10 months. 

Is that enough said? 

Do I owe it to her to keep my mouth shut, publicly, about what being her daughter has been like? 

Do I owe it to myself to purge what being her daughter has been like?  Purge this shit out of my head, out of my heart, and hopefully rid this heavy weight I carry on my shoulders in regard to my mother. 

I have so many mixed feelings. 

She did the best she could, or knew how to do…as all of us mothers do…however, her faults, many times, were at my expense.  Not on me physically, no.  My mother did not give me physical scars.  She gave me emotional ones.  Psychological ones.  One is not worse than the other, but, these psychological/emotional scars have formed smoothed, raised callouses in my psyche, that have sometimes impeded the way of me becoming…well, me. 

Or did they cause me to become me? 

That’s what Jake says.  He says I should be grateful that she made me who I am.  I do love me some me, but…surely there was a kinder way to nurture me, for me to still be me.  No?  I don’t know. 

I just know that I have a lot to talk about in regard to my mother, and I can’t talk to her about it.  She won’t listen to me.  She says this is all my fault that I’m too sensitive. 

Um…do you guys know me?  Is sensitive a word you’d use to describe me? 

Yeah…me either. 

What is your opinion on the matter? 

To blog, respectfully, about my mother…or not to blog…that is the question!

Doing it wrong…

I MUST be doing this motherhood thing all wrong. 

Why? 

Because THIS is my 8 year old’s favorite song…

WTF?!?

I love me some white rappers, but dayum, dude! 

How Nikki Got Her Groove Back…

Blog style. 

Good news:  I’m vowing to blog again.  And yes, at this point in my absenteeism, I realize I’m likely talking to myself.  That’s kind of the point anyway. 

Which leads me to the…

Bad news:  The next several posts will be devoid of funny.

You see, over the past two years, I’ve spiraled back into the chasm of depression.  How I made it through nursing school during this psychological shit storm, I have no idea.  I just know that now that the dust has settled (yes, this bitch has graduated and there is only one test in my way of the letters R and N behind my name), I look around and hardly recognize myself. 

I take that back. 

I do recognize myself.  And I don’t love who I see.  I am the me of seven years ago, the first time I found myself in this now familiar chasm.  It fucking sucks.  I look the same…about twenty pounds (I’m lying…actually more) overweight, full of self loathing, arguing with my husband because I’m so fucking unhappy with myself.  My mind reeling from being pulled and stretched farther than I imagined possible during school, now ten months estranged from my mother (for very good reasons…this is actually a plus, yet it still hurts like hell), with the same seven year ago sadness in my eyes and downturn of my lips. 

Are YOU now in the chasm with me…did I depress the shit out of you? 

No?  Good. 

I did have to succeed and start taking the happy pills again.  In fact, I’m on two.  A “happy pill,” and because that wasn’t enough, a “happier pill.”  They’ve begun to help, but, I still have some bullshit in my brain that I need to wade through. 

This is where you come in, r/t (that’s nursey nurse for ‘related to’") this little ole blog and the back gettingness of this groove of mine…

I do plan to use the next several posts as a sort of therapy, and get some of this shit out of my head and into my blog.  I plan to document this go ‘round of “the crazy” so that when I’m faced with future episodes of “the crazy,” this blog will be sort of a beacon in the darkness of this chasm that I sometimes find myself in. 

So, hang with me, or not, just know that one day soon, I will have my groove back and by God, there will be funny again!! 

I missed this place.  I love you.  “Kiss the babies for me.”

Nikki

Shit narcissistic mothers say...

When you're telling them about something good that just happened in your life...

"Yeah, well, the thing is...I've decided that when bad things happen to people, it's because the devil is attacking them.  But, when good things happen to people over and over, it's because the devil already has a hold of them, and there is no use for him to try to attack them any longer.  He already has them in his grip."

Don't ask me how I know this...

Whew, it feels better to get that off my chest!