Fuck her.

When Sarah calls I could throw up. When she goes on and on about how much she loves and misses her kids I could literally hit something. Really, Sarah? Really?! Do you love and miss them more than you love meth and miss it when you can't get any? No. Okay, it's not that the mere act of her calling makes me sick but the reaction from the kids; the squeals of joy and the "I love you mommys" She's 1500  god damned miles away, banging drugs and probably on her back as I type. I am here cleaning shit out of underware, dealing with Tween girl angst and otherwise playing mommy to her three kids. I work 2 jobs to make ends meet, cook dinner, make presents for their friends, etc. I get the grunt work and she gets the glory. Tonight, I showed my ass.
Sarah called and as per our rules was on speaker phone while talking to the children. I heard the middle child giving info to Sarah about where she goes to Day Care. I interjected with "DO NOT give her that info!" as Sarah has come and taken the kids from school previously. I forgot that she was on speaker. She got mad and said, "GOD! Just let ME talk to MY kids." YOUR KIDS? These kids that I raise, you whore? I only verbalized some of the above written before Aaron told us to both stop.
Fuck her. Her kids? Just because she birthed them doesn't mean shit to me. Get clean, come back to Oklahoma and be a mom then. My son's father isn't asserting his parental authority while being a derelict. He stays away. He doesn't want to write a check or be responsible so he doesn't call or come around. I respect him for it.  Parenting can be done one of two way: all in or all out. You can't be a mom with a syringe hanging out of your arm.

The Beginning

Sarah and I had decided to meet downtown for lunch. It was a Thursday and I was off for the day. We headed to a trendy "gourmet" pizza place near where she worked to have what I called  a "Lunchtime Confessional". Joe Momma's had been on my mind since I'd just recently met someone who worked there. We were seated in what I now know is table number twenty-one and told that someone would be right with us.
Who was right with us was the most handsome man I'd seen in a long time and, by far, the best looking man in the restaurant. I was single and looking and I swear that he was. He wasn't a hipster which I thought was a mandate to be employed at this particular establishment. He was, I thought, in his late 20s and adorable in his Blake For Tulsa tee and cargos. I had a few tall boys and decided that since he'd not so much as made eye contact that I would take matters into my own hands. I couldn't get his attention and it was killing me. Lunchtime tipsy, I thought I'd take a chance and leave my number. I assumed he was taken as he was too handsome to not have a girlfriend or wife. I wrote something like, "I think you're really good looking and if you're single I'd like to take you out for a beer" on the back of my receipt and hurried out. Of course, and in true Danielle form, I left my bracelet on the table so I had to run back in to grab it all the while praying I'd not run into him after he'd read my note and deemed me silly. Headed back through the restaurant I slipped and slid what felt like a long way. He swears he didn't see it.

That day and the next passed without a call. I was sure I'd never be able to eat at Joe Momma's again for fear of being super embarrased.

Day 2: "Hey, this is Aaron" Who? "Aaron from Joe Momma's" Oh. OH! "I'd like to take you out for lunch sometime but I think you should know that I have three kids in case that's a deal breaker"

Obviously it wasn't.

Beginning

The lights - they make noises... humming and clicking away as thought they, too, are hard at work. Their harshness compounded by the light whirring is softly but surely boring into my psyche. "How did I get here?", I wonder.

Today I cried over turkey.
Roasting a turkey to be exact.
I'm sure it's more than that.
I don't know how to cook a turkey.

Three Days Later

I wake up in a sea of black. My entire body is rigid from sleep and terror. Sheer terror. I sit straight up, the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention and I'm gripping the sheets around me so hard that I can feel the muscles in my hands begin to ache. I'm alert and I'm sick to my stomach. Something very bad is going to happen and soon. Where's my Xanax? I'm too afraid to leave my bed so I'm still in the darkness for a very long time. I'm sweating yet I'm cold. There's a gnawing feeling of regret, dread and trepidation that I can't place but it's deep and unyielding. I'm trapped in this mania for seemingly an eternity when I get it. Someone's going to die. Not just "someone" but someone close to me is going to pass. Maybe I'm going to die, I think. Please, God, don't let it be Isaac.
I don't sleep the rest of the night. I just lie there engulfed with anxiety until the sun rises then I'm off to work. I can't function and I know I look just awful. I explain to a coworker what I had dealt with the night prior and he shrugs it off as another one of my panic attacks as I get them often. I'm thankful for my little blue footballs. The weight of my bottle in my bag makes me feel safe and comfortable and a bit invinsible. I'm not going to die. No one I love is going to be lost to me.
The night after my father died I awoke to him in my bedroom's doorway. Light shone all around him and he said, "It's not your fault, Danielle" then he was gone.

Finally

Today has, honestly, been the first day in a long time that I feel back to "normal" what ever that may be. For so many years I've felt like I had to be someone to live up to something that I'm not. I tried to cram myself into a mold that was forced upon me. I'm done. I'm done conforming.

Colors are brighter, sounds sweeter. It's easier to smile and harder to give a fuck. Today, I love this life no matter how wild and unpredictable it may be. I can't be anyone that I'm not and I'm done trying.

This is me. I'm a work in progress, ever evolving and one seriously hot mess. To be me is rather fun.