Sometimes,I wonder about my writing, but I keep on and on because it’s the best fuck-you I got.
Fuck You Dirty Dishes
I did not just spend all those years in college to be a house bitch. I have real skills that don’t entail scrubbing toilets or washing clothes, though in the military, I learned more on how to fold a t-shirt to perfection with a pair of tweezers and hang my uniforms all facing the same direction spaced evenly apart like Mr. Rogers’ Closet (he was a Marine) than I learned about anti-terrorism, yet they put anti-terrorism on the certificate instead of house bitch.
I was raised for a career. I tell all about it in my chapter in this wonderful book, but to nutshell my youth and things my mother said over and over to me growing up…
Now mind you, I never actually finished a degree, though I have more credits than a degree requires, just not the right credits for an actual degree. I changed my major 9 times. But the point is, I wasn’t meant for domestic housewife crap. I did not take Calculus to figure out how to remove packaging from toys.
The onslaught of reproduction wants me to scrub floors. When you don’t have kids, you clean your house, and it stays clean for at least a week. You pick up after only yourself. When company is coming over, you can straighten up in less than 15 minutes.
With kids? Ha. That life shriveled up and died like some sociopath’s sadistic salt on a snail. I can’t get my house to stay clean long enough to clean the entire place. One room is destroyed while I clean another. I can clean for 12 hours a day while chasing kids, and people come over and ask why I haven’t cleaned this month.
I can prove I wasn’t meant for this life.
- I keep buying wax warmers I don’t use.
- My “To Be Filed” box is now 20 boxes now that I don’t have a secretary anymore.
- Picking up stuff off the floor gives me severe indigestion.
- Mopping the floor makes my butt twitch in pain due to back issues I picked up from the military.
- I have PTSD, meaning I don’t know what day it is, and the kids are always late for school
- It’s April, and my Christmas tree is still up… again.
I’m just too good for housework. I should be designing appliances, not using them.
Fuck You Male Dominated Corporate America
And when I got pregnant, I got fired for being pregnant. Then I had 3 kids back to back, so for a good 5 years, I was either pregnant or nursing, which I’d have better luck showing up to a job interview drunk with a tattoo of Satanic icons on my neck.
I tried the June Cleaver house wife shit for a couple years. I felt unfulfilled. Empty. Without purpose. I know my kids should be my purpose, but it’s not a beautiful Gerber Grow Up commercial. We are not holding a baby gently on a rocking chair. We are wiping butts, cleaning poop off of every slab on a crib, picking up toys we don’t remember buying, cooking food nobody wants to eat, slaving over whiny kids who can’t stand the attention being taken away from them to clean for them and a whiny husband who is addicted to being a bigger victim than you are. I’m serious. If I make my husband clean the living room, he acts like he’s been victimized.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very well aware when I’m on my deathbed, the only three things on my mind will be each of my children. But I won’t be thinking about dirty diapers or dirty dishes just the same as I won’t be thinking about fulfilling career goals. So there. All you people who are all, “If you loved your kids, you would enjoy scraping the food they didn’t like that you cooked off their plates.”
But then I found a community of moms experiencing the same thing. I was raised in a generation where women were raised for careers, and a lot of that generation lost their careers to motherhood, but they wouldn’t let go. They started businesses. Some do the Avon Tupperware thing with Jamberry Nails and Scentsy, but most I met online went into the writing world via blogs, SEO content, and E-Zines.
I embraced that world because I needed to do something with my brain. I needed it like men need to masturbate. I needed to be creative again without construction paper. Filing taxes once a year just wasn’t enough.
But I embraced it slowly and hesitantly because…
Fuck you everyone who thinks this is a waste of time.
And I mean this with love since I’m related to many of you.
I didn’t feel confident to go to work without pants. I only had one published poem up to this point, so I was feeling like a guy with a small dick having to pee, and the only urinal open is in between two black men with porno sized… you know what I mean… Also, I was used to being a right-hand man, and I couldn’t find anyone who needed a right-hand.
I didn’t mean for those metaphors to be related.
The fun part about motherhood is, your support system goes from actual support to criticism for the handful who don’t totally bail on you. The talk behind my back went from,
“I’m so proud of Michelle for completing basic training. I could never do that,”
“I can’t believe Michelle can’t keep her house as clean as mine. She is so lazy.”
No more, “You’d be good at that”
No more, “I believe in you”s.
The constant criticism killed my confidence like my confidence just snitched on Al Pacino. Every step of the way, all I hear from those who claim to love me is how I suck at everything.
In fact, it’s so bad, when I was writing for Macys.com, everyone intervened for my “Facebook addiction,” because a mom behind the computer is obviously on Farmville. It’s like nobody realized that drafting in the military used AutoCAD on a computer, and that filing taxes for people was done on a computer, and that finance reports were being prepared on a computer. And maybe, just fucking maybe, a writer might write on the computer, and SEO content might be done on the internet… But a mom doesn’t need a computer to do the dishes, so if you are a mom on a computer, you are obviously playing games. Never mind the $500 weekly check everyone spent for me.
A major 75 year and running study showed that the people in our lives contribute more to our successes than anything else, including the income class you were born into and your IQ. Very interesting study.
Socializing itself is helpful to keep you on top as adult life isn’t much different than high school where the popular people get the job, cliques are formed but are now called tribes or political affiliations, basic bitches still talk shit, and the villains from soap operas still try to attack your efforts like cancer.
But it’s more than that. Most of what we do is our reaction to our environment. If your environment is constantly supporting you, you are more apt to do things, confidently make decisions, and move up some ladder whether it be material or spiritual. However, if your environment is constantly berating you, you will be the piece of shit they claim you to be. Eventually.
Not to mention, it affects your health. Happy people are healthy people. Unhappy people are unhealthy people. Happy people live healthier lifestyles, have less blockage in their spiritual chakras, and so forth. Our general state of happiness is very dependent on how people treat us. It affects our feelings about ourselves and ability to “succeed.” If you get a bully one day, but the rest of the month everyone is your friend, you’re set. But if you are bullied every day where you only have one day off of it, you’re fucked. If you are bullied and have no one to run to, you’re fucked.
So now you know. When people criticize you, they are actually trying to kill you.
I do not have a supportive environment. People are my demons. Their negativity sucks all the energy right out of me. Their darkness clouds my light, and sometimes I can’t shine through it.
I quit that $500 a check job to clean my house because nobody would watch the kids for me so I could work, and it took every minute of the day to be late for my deadline because 2 toddlers and a baby won’t let you work. The house was neglected to make deadlines, and after a month of not cleaning much at all, it looked like my house should be condemned.
My mom said, “I can’t watch your kids. I have your sister’s kids so she can go to her real job,” her minimum wage job. She didn’t mean it like that, but that’s what it was.
My husband said he’d handle the kids so I could work, but then he played video games instead. If you have to stop what you are doing to get up, tell the husband a kid needs something, sit down, notice he hasn’t done it yet, get up to tell him again, sit down, he gets it done but totally ignores what the other kid needs by that time, so you have to stop what you are doing to get up again…. I’m not handling 3 kids anymore, but 4. He didn’t mean it like that, but that’s what it was.
In their defense, my kids are solely my responsibility. In my defense, nobody in my life, offline who I can touch and know well enough to know this much about them, had to raise kids alone.
Between my fears and insecurity to get into blogging before the bubble popped (too many bloggers now, and Facebook’s algorithm killed a lot of traffic), and quitting any kind of decent job to service the very people who made me feel that way, I’m now in a rut. I can only do the things my world will let me do, and those are things that show much less success than what I’m used to.
Still, I get no support. I’m published in 5 anthologies and published my own book, something nobody has done in my family since Noah Webster, and I’m still playing games on the computer. I’m still a lazy bitch. I don’t care. I’m going to keep doing it just because nobody wants me to.
Fuck You Death
Obviously with my community of supportive people I got, I’m probably going to die young. Now, I have something to leave behind for my kids. A lot of writers have written about their words being immortal, like a poem is immortal, a piece of their consciousness and heart that just simply won’t die.
When my father died, I craved his words of wisdom. I still crave those words. I don’t remember all of them.That makes me so sad, and not much makes me sad like where I could use an emoji to convey it. I need his voice and his words.
My kids will have my words. I write so much, it will be like Superman’s Snow Cave. I should have answered any question imaginable somewhere in my blogs and published work.
Plus, they get to keep all the copyrights, which is good because my life insurance is just as impotent as that guy who had to pee earlier.
So in a nutshell… Why do I keep writing?
- I want the success to be successful enough to prove myself to all these people.
- I need the moral support from the online community; it’s the only moral support I have besides God
- It’s therapeutic
- It’s my escape
- It’s my career…. ish
- It makes me immortal
If my kids are reading this at all, I don’t blame you for what I feel in this post. Kids are kids. Babies are babies. I blame the people who should have been helping me. I blame the adults who acted like more children for me to raise. I still love them. I forgive them. But it doesn’t change what happened.
Now you know. Here’s a gem to take with you. To quote myself…
This is part of Finish the Sentence Friday.