Some Stuff You Just Don't Make Up

Today is one of those days. My head is congested and I feel a fever brewing in my chest. On top of my current health status, I have lost pretty much everything that holds you together as an adult. Well let's see—I got really behind on my rent payments so in August I moved back in with my mom. Ugh, yes. See our relationship is not the greatest (story for another day). And last night, I woke up to my Jeep, (that I was super proud of myself for being able to get almost two years ago) honking the alarm in the distance as I realized it was getting repo'd. It's the end of the month, and my sales haven't been the greatest for November. And those damn NSF fees keep taking my money and the commissions don't pay out quick enough. All around yes, it is a shitty situation.

On the bright side of this the ball of crusty mucus, counting my blessings is plentiful—single mom of four, wonderful mix of teenagers and preteens and I have a boyfriend who loves my unselfishly. And if he could, he would take all my financial worries away. But wait—I am an independent woman. A stubborn independent woman that is extremely prideful in asking for assistance. And I can actually tell you where that came from. So, let's go back about 30 years and we can start from there.

When I was seven years old, I was a tomboy. I loved to play in the mud and with Tonka trucks. I hated to brush my hair and every time my mom would brush to put it in nice ponytails or braids, I would pull them out. I climbed citrus trees and ran barefoot in the yard. I am the oldest of eight children. Yes, eight. At that time, my parents were still together.

Fast forward to 14 years old. They separated. At that time, dad was a vicious man. He was also a drug dealer, ruthless. Him and my mom definitely went through it. At 14 going on 15, I grew up. That's when I got to know depression really good. I even learned to hide it from everyone. Of coarse, growing up with the stigma of your first true love, who typically for a daughter is her father, I was rejected. I'm sure my brothers and sisters felt the same. Everyone copes with it differently. This is where I learned to be stubborn.

During the early years of my parents going through separation, it was full of shame. Mom ended up hooked on coke and meth when I was 15. She learned how to deal drugs from my dad and after he left got the support of some of his former associates. She was gone most of the time, so it left me in charge of taking care and raising my siblings. There were times when her depression was so severe combined with using drugs, she would geek out. I remember this one night, it was just her and I on the couch and she was crying. Rocking back and forth, hugging her legs to her chest whispering that the walls had moved and that we were being listened to. I didn't know what to do. So I just sat there watching her and listening to what she was saying.

School hours were my escape. I was a C student, but band class was where I could find solace in the mad world I was growing up in. As soon as we would get home from school, she would disappear. Whether it was to do a delivery, pick up money or just leave because it was all too much for her. She became a mother at 13, and at the time when she would disappear, I would make the excuse that she needed to have her time for fun or just be with adults. Yes, I rationalized that excuse.

From that point on, we grew up poor as dirt. The house we lived in had broken windows. There was no food in the fridge. Half of the time, we went without electricity. I remember one year all we ate was a slice of bread, ham and cheese. That was all we had. I don't recall her receiving food stamps to keep food on the table. Rarely did she ask for help from her family. If they did, it was because they had come over and saw the conditions we were living in or there was absolutely nothing else she could do.

She was a prideful woman. Still is to this day. I am learning that it is ok to ask for help. And I struggle with that. Its a trait that is so woven into my being, that pulling the threads apart is painful. Although, with each thread pulled and thrown away, I am finding out that its not as bad as it seems. Almost like a stitch where your flesh grows around it. When its pulled out, because in your eyes, that's what keeping you together its not what it appears to be keeping your together. Its just a visual reminder of what appears to be isn't.

That's what happened to me.