O V E R

~

It's O V E R.

God worked it out.

I lost 'it' a few days ago.

Wasn't sad.

Wasn't hormonal.

Didn't cry.

Sighed.

A HUGE sigh of relief.

Cuz now I don't have to worry about the WHAT and the WHY and the God Almighty HOW.

You can call me cold.

You can call me the Ice Queen.

Lord knows the Golden Seed Provider does.

I think God worked it out.

You can think whatever you want.

I'm not sorry that I'm relieved.

I'm not sorry that I'm not horribly, horribly, horribly sick as a Roman in a vomitorium anymore.

I'm not sorry that 'it's' over.

I'm not sorry about any of it.

Not the curse words against the Virgin Mary. Or I guess God for that matter.

Cuz I never did anything wrong.

In fact, I did everything R I G H T.

I kept my promises to all my doctors.

I did not explode when the Golden Seed Provider questioned "Whose is it?"

I went to counseling (and I will continue to go).

I tried to act like everything was 'normal'. (Yeah, what exactly does 'normal' mean for ME? If you figure that out, let me know.)

I sought help, guidance, prayer, consultation......

I stopped taking medicines that helped me, in order to protect an unborn, even though the withdrawal was horrific for my body.

I HAD MY TUBES TIED, OR COILS IMPLANTED IF YOU WANT TO BE UBER SPECIFIC.

The only thing I did NOT do, was act joyful.

But....

No one else who heard the news acted joyfully either.

And for that...

I am thankful.

And I am thankful that God made a potentially agonizing journey very short indeed.

I hadn't been praying in a couple of weeks, cuz, I had no idea what to pray for.

Strength.

Yeah.

Everytime I think of praying for strength, my dear friend and respected counsel, PJ, comes to mind with his quotation of scripture, "there is strength in weakness."

I offered praise when it was over.

Even though it hurt really, really, really bad for a day and a half.

I didn't really care about the physical pain.

I was so very relieved.

Still am.

And if that makes me a horrible, horrible, horrible menace of a person, then..

So be it.

Walk a mile in these shoes.

Forget it.

Walk half a mile.

Nah.

Just tread to the mailbox.

Dare you.

Encourage you.

ENTREAT you.

And then you can judge me.

For now, it's Christmas.

Birthday of Jesus.

I've got my two miracles.

They are sound asleep right now.

With sugarplums dancing in their heads.

Two miracles are enough.

For now.

Merry Christmas.

~

What-What-What-What-Why and Finally, HOW

~

So.

It's been a couple of weeks.

I'm not so angry any more.

I went from:

WHAT?

WHAT?

WHAT?

WHAT?

meaning, of course, WHAT THE HELL???? (or worse, but I'm trying to cut back on the vulgarities, just because, well, I dunno)

to:

WHY?

meaning, WHY THE HELL? (or, of course, worse).

to:

HOW?

meaning, HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO THIS?

meaning, HOW CAN I PHYSICALLY DO THIS?

meaning, HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED, AND HOW I AM I GOING TO DO THIS WHEN I CAN'T EVEN GET OUT OF BED MORE THAN SOME DAYS AND I CAN BARELY TAKE CARE OF THE MOST BASIC OF TASKS LET ALONE REALLY TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY ALREADY TWO KIDS HOW THE HECK AM I GOING TO DO THIS?

And please don't tell me with God's help.

I mean, yeah, maybe.

But PHYSICALLY?

Not.

I have no idea HOW I am going to do this.

NO clue.

Not one.

~

The Angel Moroni

~
So.

For those of you who don't know, my foursome took the trip of a lifetime last year, and drove 8,000 miles, 23 states, in 40 days.

To say the least, it was totally awesome.

Anyhoo.

In one of our stops in the Southwest (Arizona? Nevada? New Mexico?), I discovered a Book of Mormon in one of our hotel room drawers.

No Bible.

It's not as if I ever go searching for the work of the Gideons when I stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, I don't.

And it's not that I don't own a Bible or read a Bible, cuz I do.

I was just opening a drawer to unpack our suitcases.

Granted, this was my first time in Warren Jeffs' country, but I had never, ever been in a hotel room with a Book of Mormon in the drawer.

For some crazy, (oh, most definitely crazy, cuz I'm crazy on the loonar scale, big time), I grabbed that Book of Mormon like a hot poker and threw it in the trash.

Two Swords screamed, "What are you DOING?"

I replied that I thought I was doing what God would want me to do, and I was just taking care of it for him.

Two Swords swore that I was going to be struck down by lightning. Actually he said something like, "Someday, this one is going to come down and BITE you in the ASS!"

I wasn't buying it.

Then he said, "How would YOU feel if someone made it their life's mission to go around to every hotel they stayed in and take the bibles out of all the drawers?"

I didn't argue with him.

The Book of Mormon stayed in the trash.

And my eyes stayed WIDE OPEN all night long.

Didn't sleep a wink.

Kept staring with one eye on the trash can, and one on the door.

As if the Angel Moroni himself were to come and pay me a visit in the middle of the night and be some kind of Death Eater and snatch up my soul.

But alas, dawn broke, the Book of Mormon was still in the drawer, and there was no lightning.

But.

I had second, third abd forth thoughts.

And yes, went canvassing the grand canyon that is in facet with my life,

And now,

Now....

~

BM - Phone Home

~

So another sage friend has suggested that I get in touch with,

of all people,

Beth Moore.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Anyone got her number?

Email address?

Suggestions as to how I stalk her without stalking her?

______________________________________________________________________________

Today, the spouse and I are headed to counseling.

Me for the second time (well, actually for me it's probably the eleventy thousandth time, but second time THIS go around).

Him, for the VERY first time.

Anyway.

Today, he is being very nice to me, so today, I will refer to him as my spouse, and not the golden seed provider.

Since he's actually going to counseling only tethered by a figurative ball and chain, not the literal shackles and cannonball.

So for those reasons, I'm giving him a promotion today. Or, less of a demotion. However you want to look at it.

__________________________________________________________________________

I'm not so mad today.

I'm puking my guts out today, but I'm not soooo mad about it.

I really don't want to get out of this nice warm bed.

I really, really, really don't want to take a shower.

I really don't want to get dressed and get in the car and drive the five miles to a place where I am certain I will have to have my 'game face' on before I open the door and walk down the hall.

I really don't want to use yet another box of kleenex today.

I really don't want to have an incredibly splotchy face for the rest of the day.

What do you want, Heather?

I really, really, really, want this to be O V E R.

Yep.

That's what I want.

And once again, God said HA!

~

You MIGHT Be An Alien.........

~
So.

My own biological mother just wrote this to me in an email:

"If someone told YOU, YOUR life story, YOU might look at them like THEY were an alien."

Sit on that one for a second.

She wrote that to me in response to my telling her.......

that yesterday......

I met with a Christian counselor for the first time.

And as I was telling him my current story,

my last year's story,

my last three year's story,

my last 11 year's story,

and then of course,

my life story,

he took like 12 pages of notes,

ran out of ink in his pen,

switched pens,

wiped his brow,

and replaced his eyeballs with a new set he had in his briefcase because his orginal pair popped out of his freaking head as he looked at me like I was a six headed alien, while fashionably dressed, extremely well spoken and educated, cuter than a root (as my good friend Sally the Pilates instructor would say, even though I never new roots could be cute but whatever, she's a real southerner while I just pretend to be one),

but a six headed alien nonetheless.

Guns and Roses

~

Just happens to be my favorite rock group of all time.

Not that you care.

Sweet Child O Mine just so happens to be my favorite song of all time, and for those of you who have been unfortunate enough to work with me in a tight cubicle setting, you are painfully aware that it is the only ringtone I have ever had on my cell phone.

Not that you care.

But today,

today,

the song "patience" is ringing in my head with a vengeance that just will NOT stop.

"All we need is just a L I T T L E patience................"

Yeah.

I am NOT talking about ME!

I am talking about that infamous golden seed provider who just happens to be my spouse.

Dammit.

I'm sorry that I can't get off the couch.

I'm sorry that I can't stop throwing up.

I'm sorry that I am completely and utterly worthless to you now, and perhaps, for a really, really long time.

I'm sorry that this has happened.

I'm sorry that YOU are having to go through with this.

I'm so very sorry that YOUR world is completely spun upside down on its axis, and that your North Pole is now your South Pole.

I'm sorry that our marriage is such a ridiculous sham that you did not believe that this could in fact be a result of your golden seed.

I'm sorry that we are not picking out names and furniture and jumping for joy and calling all our friends and family and running hand in hand while doing the irish jig version of the we're off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of oz happy dance.

and yes.

yes.

yes.

absolutely.

I AM FUCKING SORRY THAT I AM PREGNANT!

There I said it.

NOW what do you want me to say, seed provider?

What?

What?

What?


There's a WHOLE lot more I would like to say, believe me.

But I'm supposed to be a loving, supportive, submissive wife.

I'm supposed to honor that golden seed provider at any and all junctures.

But if I'm supposed to be the gazelle of Michelle "I've had EIGHT THOUSAND BABIES AND I HAVE CARRIED EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM AND I DON'T THINK I HAVE EVER SAID NO TO ANYONE ESPECIALLY MY OWN TRIPLE GOLDEN SEED PROVIDER HUSBAND IN MY ENTIRE LIFE" Duggar, and stare at him lovingly at all times and just joyfully exclaim, "IF GOD WANTS ME TO HAVE EIGHT THOUSAND BABIES, THEN BY FUCKING GOLLY I WILL CARRY THOSE EIGHT THOUSAND BABIES JOYFULLY! EVEN IF IT MEANS I WILL

DIE

DIE

DIE!",

well, sorry.

I just can't.

I guess I don't have the patience right now either.

This is so much bigger than me dudes.

SO bigger than me.

AND bigger than the golden seed provider.

AND bigger than the both of us together on a GOOD day, of which, there are not so many.

Real

~

NOTE TO THOSE WHO DARE TO READ FURTHER:

You are about to read what may perhaps be the only written account of the birth of our Lord and Savior depicted with the use of about eleventy expletives.

It's my damn blog.

It's my damn life.

Scared?

Go away and don't read it.

I've never touted myself as the Virgin Mary (yeah, okay maybe I did).

Consider yourselves warned and govern yourselves accordingly.

I'm shaking my angry fist at God, and dammit, three freaking pastors and eighteen Christians and a whole freaking Bible have told me it's okay and I have yet to be struck down by lightning, so there.

You want cookie cutter Mommie Bloggie It's off to see the Wizard crap happy happy joy joy?

This blog ain't for you.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Heather.

I want you to write about it.

You NEED to write about it.

But I don't want to write about it.

But why don't you want to about it?

You're such a great writer.

A really really great writer.

I really don't want to write about it.

You should write a book.

About your whole life.

Yeah, I've heard that a thousand times.

Then why don't you write it?

Because I just can't imagine that anyone would want to read it!

I mean, ME, I would NOT want to read it.

And ME, I love the freaks.

I studied the freaks.

I worked with the freaks.

Shit.

I AM a freak.

I AM a living, breathing, Saturday-night-LIFETIME-movie-of-the-week-freak for Christ's sake.

I am EVERY SINGLE SATURDAY NIGHT, LIFETIME MOVIE OF THE WEEK that has ever been aired.

Let's run through the marquee, shall we?:

RAPED AT FIFTEEN
ABANDONED AT FOUR
TELL OR DIE - FUCKED AT SIX
HOW NOT TO SAVE A TWO YEAR OLD BOY FROM BEING MURDERED BY HIS MOTHER
TELL ME NO LIES - THE ALCOHOLIC WHO LEFT ME
AND THEN SHE GOT SICK
YOUR BABIES WILL DIE

Who watches that crap?

Who wants to read that crap?

You need to write it because it has made you wise.

Oh buoy.

Wise?

_______________________________________________________________________________

Yes, wise.

He's right.

Wise.

And now I realize, the titles aren't complete.

They actually go something like this:

RAPED AT FIFTEEN - and lived to tell about it.
ABANDONED AT FOUR - yet loved again.
TELL OR DIE - FUCKED AT SIX - redeemed through justice and saved by God.
HOW NOT TO SAVE A TWO YEAR OLD BOY FROM BEING MURDERED BY HIS MOTHER - she couldn't save the world's abused children, but she saved herself.
TELL ME NO LIES - THE ALCOHOLIC WHO LEFT ME - and made room for the love of her life.
AND THEN SHE GOT SICK - but she didn't die.
DEATH BECOMES HER - 'cept not.
YOUR BABIES WILL DIE - but they sure as heck didn't.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Yeah.

I need to become more grateful.

I need to see the joy in the small things.

__________________________________________________________________________________

How 'ironic'?

Is it.

That we.

Struggled.

To Conceive, Birth, Raise and Adore Those Babies Who Were Supposed to Die.

Only to Expect Another.

That We Don't Want.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Sounds like a poor orphan girl named Maria.

She didn't want that baby.

She damn sure didn't want that baby.

Heckfire, she got pregnant and never had an orgasm.

Now THAT would suck.

Poor, unmarried, pregnant.

A virgin.

She probably thought:


ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

SERIOUSLY?

WHAT THE HELL?

REALLY?

REALLY?

REALLY?

AND YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?

CARRY THIS 'BABY' WHO ALLEGEDLY IS A MESSIAH WHO WILL SOMEDAY SAVE THE WORLD,
CONVINCE MY CARPENTER BOYFRIEND THAT I REALLY AM THE VIRGIN MARY WHO IS PREGNANT WITH A MESSIAH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, HOPE THAT HE DOESN'T ASK ME WHOSE BABY IT IS CUZ I REALLY DON'T FUCKING KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED, THEN GET ON A FUCKING ASS, I MEAN DONKEY, RIDE THROUGH THE FUCKING DESERT GUIDED BY THE GPS OF A REALLY BIG ASS STAR, AND GIVE BIRTH LAYING IN A BUNCH OF HAY IN A FUCKING BARN WITHOUT AN EPIDURAL SURROUNDED BY SHEEP AND A TRIO OF WEIRD GUYS IN CROWNS BEARING GIFTS THAT AREN'T CHOCOLATE AND THEN HAVE TO GET BACK ON THAT ASS WHEN AN ALLEGED MESSIAH WAS JUST RIPPED FROM MY FIFTEEN YEAR OLD VAGINA?

SERIOUSLY?

Yeah, now that I have written it down....

Now that I realize,

I am not in fact the Virgin Mary.........

Now that I see that no,

I am not in fact pregnant with a messiah.....

Nor will I have to ride an ass in the desert neither before nor after having my vagina being ripped to shreds....

Nor have to endure life without an epidural nor any other drugs for that matter......

Now that I see in fact,

The most difficult thing I have had to do thus far was convince my carpenter husband that yes in fact this non messiah was going to be a spawn of his extremely rare seed........

Now that I see it.......

It has become.......

REAL.

Which is precisely why I didn't want to write it down.

If I write it down........

Somehow it becomes more real......

More real than the morning sickness......

More real than boobs which have suddenly become huge and incredibly painful....

More real than the reality that this is potentially the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me....

More real than the total and complete improbability that I am in fact 'with child'....

More real than the realization that for such an agonizingly long time I yearned for this what should not have happened to in fact be happening....

If I write it down, it somehow becomes

R E A L.

....And I'm the Virgin Mary

So.

Have you ever said to someone, "Oh yeah? Well I have a Bridge in Brooklyn to sell you?"

Or........

"Yeah right! And I'm the VIRGIN MARY!"

Well.

Hi.

I'm the Virgin Mary.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning...........

So.

Gosh, this is so much harder than I thought it would be.

HA!

Brothuh!

YOU don't EVEN know!

Here's a simile of a phone message I left earlier today:

"Hi. Haven't talked to you in awhile, and sorry I only call when 'stuff' happens, but yeah, I kinda have another 'bomb' to drop on you. Ummmmmmmmm.

I'm pregnant.

And I promised my doctors I wouldn't have anymore babies.

And I had my tubes tied two years ago.

And I'm on methadone.

And a whole lotta other crap.

And I had my pieces/parts surgically deconstructed and reconstructed, to repair the damage that my oh-so-complicated disease and oh-so-complicated preganancies did to my oh-so-beaten-and-battered-and-broken body THREE years ago.

And I'm forty.

And most days I really struggle with getting out of bed every day.

And.

And.

And.

Oh.

Yeah.

And my husband and I have been 'completely' intimate

ONE

TIME

IN

THE

PAST

YEAR.

So, yeah, um, that's my message."

Hi.

I'm the Virgin Mary.

~