So, it's official. I'm over it. I'm over not fitting in things the way I want to. I'm tired of never having any energy. I'm tired of my weight getting in the way of sex. I'm tired of not being able to keep up with my kids.
So, today is day one of a major life style overhaul.
I will eat the fruits and veggies I should.
I will cut out most processed food from my diet.
I will start exercising as often as I should.
On the exercise front, I'm going to be smart about it and not lead myself down the road that tends towards burnout. I'm going to take a month and work out three days a week, then work in more days as my body feels ready for it.
I think I might join one of those random websites so I'm held more accountable for the food and exercise decisions that I make.
So, day 1. Here we go.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Day One
So, this is a short story, written rather hurriedly for a writing contest I'm in. It needs flushing out and it's not perfect, but all the same, here it is as it's being entered.
~Waking Up~
Samantha woke up before dawn with the rolling in her stomach after only a couple hours of sleep. It made her laugh when people told her to enjoy her sleep while it lasted. It also made her laugh when people told her she glowed with maternal pride. In Samantha's opinion, people were fucking morons and there was no maternal feelings towards this parasite that had been sucking her will to live away for 9 and half months.
The parasite rolled several more times to make sure Samantha knew it was hungry and it was time to hunt. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and wondered if this was how breeding dogs felt: not blessed with life, but cursed with it. People would argue that she knew what she was getting into. Her signature on the contracts was proof of that. Of course, when you're damned, trying to find a way out, you don't read the fine print. There wasn't time to reflect on these decisions right now though, there was hunting to be done and a parasite to feed.
She set her feet on the floor and the smell from underneath the floor boards assaulted her just like every morning. In the beginning it hadn't been so bad. Her sense of smell wasn't amplified yet and there weren't so many bodies hidden. Those days Samantha hadn't had to use the gifts that came with the contract and the parasite. She was far from the prettiest girl in the room at any time, but there's something about seeming helpless that attracts the worst of the worst. They follow you home like puppies, sensing prey that won't fight their depravities. The look on the face of the victimizer as they become victim is priceless, no doubt about that.
Samantha put on her make up, found the dress that best flaunts her belly and desire to be sodomized and headed out into the new day, the last day, the first day.
~The Birth~
7:07 am on the 7th day of the 7th month, and it's finally time.
Samantha returns with the corrupt, pervert priest. His eyes are vacant and whatever it is they see, it's not this street, this house, this time. She finds them gathered around her porch. It makes her smile, knowing how many times people passed them by and rolled their eyes at them. This street pestilence with their signs declaring that God and the end is coming. The role of the prophet is forever to be ignored until it's too late for the warning to matter. These prophets have been called her to see the beginning of what they've always known is coming.
These prophets part ranks to let Samantha and her pet priest through, closing behind them to prevent any interruptions. She leaves her door open so the few chosen acolytes can follow. Once she would have been disgusted by the smell they trailed with them, but now it's nothing. All she knows is relief at finally knowing the parasite will be out of her and everything will be over, knowing that the price for salvation is almost at an end.
She seats the priest down in the middle of a room that has been cleared of all but the oldest symbols and the oldest weapon. As it was in the beginning so it will be in the end. She kneels before the priest, feels the parasite inside her start to writhe in anticipation. She whispers a prayer to the old gods and the new. As she lifts the blade, there is a glimmer of panic in the eyes of the priest as he suddenly sees what's in front of him. The blade lowers and a cry escapes his throat.
Samantha angles the blade at the last minute to her engorged stomach. When the blade enters she feels the greatest pain she's ever felt. As she pulls the blade away, the acolytes fall to their knees in gratitude and light begins to fill the room. She is blinded with light and with the pain as the tiny cut is torn by hands slowly from the inside. She feels herself being turned inside out as the parasite pulls her skin to make itself whole.
One last blinding pulse of light fills the room and fades back to reveal something that looks like Samantha, but glowing with the light of all the old gods and holding a flaming sword and a pile of bones and organs by it's feet. It is beautiful, thinks the priest, as it leans in to kiss him and raises it's sword.
It whispers, "You will be the first of the impure and the disbelievers this day, but not that last."
~Waking Up~
Samantha woke up before dawn with the rolling in her stomach after only a couple hours of sleep. It made her laugh when people told her to enjoy her sleep while it lasted. It also made her laugh when people told her she glowed with maternal pride. In Samantha's opinion, people were fucking morons and there was no maternal feelings towards this parasite that had been sucking her will to live away for 9 and half months.
The parasite rolled several more times to make sure Samantha knew it was hungry and it was time to hunt. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and wondered if this was how breeding dogs felt: not blessed with life, but cursed with it. People would argue that she knew what she was getting into. Her signature on the contracts was proof of that. Of course, when you're damned, trying to find a way out, you don't read the fine print. There wasn't time to reflect on these decisions right now though, there was hunting to be done and a parasite to feed.
She set her feet on the floor and the smell from underneath the floor boards assaulted her just like every morning. In the beginning it hadn't been so bad. Her sense of smell wasn't amplified yet and there weren't so many bodies hidden. Those days Samantha hadn't had to use the gifts that came with the contract and the parasite. She was far from the prettiest girl in the room at any time, but there's something about seeming helpless that attracts the worst of the worst. They follow you home like puppies, sensing prey that won't fight their depravities. The look on the face of the victimizer as they become victim is priceless, no doubt about that.
Samantha put on her make up, found the dress that best flaunts her belly and desire to be sodomized and headed out into the new day, the last day, the first day.
~The Birth~
7:07 am on the 7th day of the 7th month, and it's finally time.
Samantha returns with the corrupt, pervert priest. His eyes are vacant and whatever it is they see, it's not this street, this house, this time. She finds them gathered around her porch. It makes her smile, knowing how many times people passed them by and rolled their eyes at them. This street pestilence with their signs declaring that God and the end is coming. The role of the prophet is forever to be ignored until it's too late for the warning to matter. These prophets have been called her to see the beginning of what they've always known is coming.
These prophets part ranks to let Samantha and her pet priest through, closing behind them to prevent any interruptions. She leaves her door open so the few chosen acolytes can follow. Once she would have been disgusted by the smell they trailed with them, but now it's nothing. All she knows is relief at finally knowing the parasite will be out of her and everything will be over, knowing that the price for salvation is almost at an end.
She seats the priest down in the middle of a room that has been cleared of all but the oldest symbols and the oldest weapon. As it was in the beginning so it will be in the end. She kneels before the priest, feels the parasite inside her start to writhe in anticipation. She whispers a prayer to the old gods and the new. As she lifts the blade, there is a glimmer of panic in the eyes of the priest as he suddenly sees what's in front of him. The blade lowers and a cry escapes his throat.
Samantha angles the blade at the last minute to her engorged stomach. When the blade enters she feels the greatest pain she's ever felt. As she pulls the blade away, the acolytes fall to their knees in gratitude and light begins to fill the room. She is blinded with light and with the pain as the tiny cut is torn by hands slowly from the inside. She feels herself being turned inside out as the parasite pulls her skin to make itself whole.
One last blinding pulse of light fills the room and fades back to reveal something that looks like Samantha, but glowing with the light of all the old gods and holding a flaming sword and a pile of bones and organs by it's feet. It is beautiful, thinks the priest, as it leans in to kiss him and raises it's sword.
It whispers, "You will be the first of the impure and the disbelievers this day, but not that last."
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
[Reflect]This is How a Heart Breaks
April nights were so cold up here. Even when the weather started to warm up and the birds started to chirp, nights were still frigid. Her breath frosted as she huddled into the borrowed jacket the neighbor had loaned her. Such a contrast to the inferno of flame she stared at across the street.
If she could think, she would wonder how they had come to this. How things had turned from "see you in the morning" and babes tucked safe in their beds to a night like this. If she could think at all, if she could do more then repeat pointless mantras in her head.
Just a noise that woke them up. The beginning of how a heart breaks. They told her afterward that it couldn't be what she thought it was, whe pretends to believe them. Then a blur of grabbing kids and a blanket to wrap them up in, running into the smoke, calling, calling, calling, yelling, trying to force herself into a burning building.
The mantra in her head, "Just wake the fuck up so you can be okay."
The firefighter's stupid question that will forever rankle: "What makes you so sure someone's in there?"
All to her breath frosting on this April night/early morning. She's not sure how she came to be standing here. She knows her babies are safe in someone's living room, watching Toy Story 3, more confused then she is, but she has no way to explain what's happening to them.
This is how a heart breaks, with the last ever expected words from a lover's lips. "They didn't make it." Later he tells her, she punched him hard enough to knock him back a few feet. For a moment forever frozen in her soul, she doesn't remember that.
The after time is just as important. The way she keeps her silence and shuts down. The heartbreaking chore of telling her babies their friends are gone. The tears she listens to her babies cry. The nothing she can do to make anything better for them. The tears of her own that refuse to fall. The sleep that refuses to come for weeks and months on end. That time is not this story though.
This story is the story of how a heart breaks. The moment when everything you think you know ends. This is my story. My silence is becoming my poison. The things I keep to myself to spare others pain is turning into a cancerous growth. Maybe these are things you didn't want to hear. Maybe the little pieces here and there were enough for you to know. But they weren't enough for me to share. I didn't want to join the pissing game of "I hurt more, no I hurt more" that seemed was going on right after the fact. There's a reason this is written in third person, to decrease my connection to it. I'm not comfortable with emotion, I'm not comfortable with sad, I'm not comfortable with love and this is a horrible combination of the three for me.
If she could think, she would wonder how they had come to this. How things had turned from "see you in the morning" and babes tucked safe in their beds to a night like this. If she could think at all, if she could do more then repeat pointless mantras in her head.
Just a noise that woke them up. The beginning of how a heart breaks. They told her afterward that it couldn't be what she thought it was, whe pretends to believe them. Then a blur of grabbing kids and a blanket to wrap them up in, running into the smoke, calling, calling, calling, yelling, trying to force herself into a burning building.
The mantra in her head, "Just wake the fuck up so you can be okay."
The firefighter's stupid question that will forever rankle: "What makes you so sure someone's in there?"
All to her breath frosting on this April night/early morning. She's not sure how she came to be standing here. She knows her babies are safe in someone's living room, watching Toy Story 3, more confused then she is, but she has no way to explain what's happening to them.
This is how a heart breaks, with the last ever expected words from a lover's lips. "They didn't make it." Later he tells her, she punched him hard enough to knock him back a few feet. For a moment forever frozen in her soul, she doesn't remember that.
The after time is just as important. The way she keeps her silence and shuts down. The heartbreaking chore of telling her babies their friends are gone. The tears she listens to her babies cry. The nothing she can do to make anything better for them. The tears of her own that refuse to fall. The sleep that refuses to come for weeks and months on end. That time is not this story though.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
[Reflect]My Name Is Jade and I'm a Processed Food Addict
This seems like a pretty obvious statement to anyone that knows me, but it's something I'm becoming increasingly aware of being an issue. I have all the classic symptoms of an addict. I make goals that I'm going to eat better, more natural foods, only to fall on my face within a matter of days and gorge out on half a box of CheezIts. Inevitably this leads to a day of binging on crap. That in turns leads to feelings of guilt. Which leads to swearing I'm going to keep to a healthy diet, starting the whole cycle over again.
This does nothing good for my waistline, my skin, my heart or my mental health. I'm 80% sure my general exhaustion, depression, plateau weight of thisclose to being obese and continuing acne problems in my 30s is a direct result of this. It's a precarious balance that makes me impatient with my family, lowers my sex drive and makes it so I generally don't want to remove my ass off of the couch.
At the end of the day, I'm not happy. I'm difficult to deal with. I know all these things. You'd think that'd be my motivation to beat the whole cycle, but I sometimes think that in my head I've doomed myself to failure before I've begun. I need to do something about my mentality though, because this is decidedly not working in the slightest.
This does nothing good for my waistline, my skin, my heart or my mental health. I'm 80% sure my general exhaustion, depression, plateau weight of thisclose to being obese and continuing acne problems in my 30s is a direct result of this. It's a precarious balance that makes me impatient with my family, lowers my sex drive and makes it so I generally don't want to remove my ass off of the couch.
At the end of the day, I'm not happy. I'm difficult to deal with. I know all these things. You'd think that'd be my motivation to beat the whole cycle, but I sometimes think that in my head I've doomed myself to failure before I've begun. I need to do something about my mentality though, because this is decidedly not working in the slightest.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
[Reflect]Because I Never Wanted to Say Goodbye, Just Until Next Time
It's been rough this week. Not for any particular reason, just I think about you a lot. I had dreams with the boys and you in them and I woke up crying. I'm at a point where I don't want to cry anymore and even three sentences into this I'm tearing up. You know me, I've never been very comfortable with showing my emotions. It's just hit me hard how many things I wanted to say. It seems a little bit like a lot of people have stood up on and shouted how much you meant to them and I'm just over here, my heart crumpled like a worthless piece of paper.
Here's a list of things I miss about you:
1. Your uncanny knack for telling me I was being an idiot in a way that made me actually take notice.
2. Being able to run over and get your second opinion on any given outfit/hair color/makeup choice and getting a completely honest response.
3. Your love of the unironic high five.
4. Our unabashedly shallow and catty conversations about everyone that wasn't on of "us".
5. Your unbelievable kindness and generosity, even when you didn't really want to be.
6. The fact you never returned any of my clothes and put a hole in more than one thing.
7. Your laugh.
8. Watching Springer at 11 pm every night and making up rules for the Jerry Springer drinking game.
9. Your infallible ability to make some of the worst decisions, but be able to laugh about it afterwards.
10. The way you rose above your past and made yourself into someone amazing and strong and beautiful, even if you didn't necessarily know it.
11. The fact you gave me a place to go and the support I desperately needed at one of the lowest points in my life.
There's so much more, but sometimes there's no way to put things into words.
There's also the list of things I'm sorry for, but I'm afraid that one reads more like self pity. It basically amounts to:
I'm sorry I didn't tell you I loved you enough.
I'm sorry I never had enough time to hang out.
I'm sorry I didn't wake up sooner.
Here's a list of things I miss about you:
1. Your uncanny knack for telling me I was being an idiot in a way that made me actually take notice.
2. Being able to run over and get your second opinion on any given outfit/hair color/makeup choice and getting a completely honest response.
3. Your love of the unironic high five.
4. Our unabashedly shallow and catty conversations about everyone that wasn't on of "us".
5. Your unbelievable kindness and generosity, even when you didn't really want to be.
6. The fact you never returned any of my clothes and put a hole in more than one thing.
7. Your laugh.
8. Watching Springer at 11 pm every night and making up rules for the Jerry Springer drinking game.
9. Your infallible ability to make some of the worst decisions, but be able to laugh about it afterwards.
10. The way you rose above your past and made yourself into someone amazing and strong and beautiful, even if you didn't necessarily know it.
11. The fact you gave me a place to go and the support I desperately needed at one of the lowest points in my life.
There's so much more, but sometimes there's no way to put things into words.
There's also the list of things I'm sorry for, but I'm afraid that one reads more like self pity. It basically amounts to:
I'm sorry I didn't tell you I loved you enough.
I'm sorry I never had enough time to hang out.
I'm sorry I didn't wake up sooner.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
[For the Record]What Nevermind Means Now
So, Nevermind is 20 years old in September. If this makes you feel old, then we're in the same boat. SPIN magazine did a retrospective article with various artists and musicians stating what Nevermind meant to them. I am not nearly interesting or famous enough for a corporate music magazine to care what I have to say, but here it is for anyone else to see.
Nevermind came out when I was in the 5th grade. My parents weren't divorced yet, but all the signs were pointing that way, no matter how they tried to cover it up. My mom's alcoholism was just in it's budding stages, but being only 11 years old, I was starting to feel confused and betrayed by her choices. My dad just wasn't around, "working" all the time. I was a definitive outcast at school. I'd fallen to the elementary version of Mean Girls and quite literally had exactly one friend and a whole gang of girls who hated me for no other reason than one girl turned on me one day. All stories for other blogs, I'm sure.
I was pretty much the picture of disaffected youth that was a mainstream in the early 90s. A very young, preteen version of it, but definitely in it. I still remember the first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" I was at a 5th grade dance. I was sitting in a corner completely ignored, because Ashley was sick that day. Immediately I felt a sense of comfort. There was always something about Kurt's voice that just implied he understood how you felt.
I know that it's a very narcissistic point of view that a lot of teenagers and preteens felt, but that's the one joy of being a teenager: It's joyfully, unabashedly all about you and you feel no need to apologize about it. As the years went on, Nirvana released better music and rereleased a first album with more raw emotion than anything else they ever did. There's always a special spot though for that first listening, that first time you felt like someone else maybe got it. Throughout all the gawkiness and bad decisions that shaped my teenage years, that was always there. I wouldn't say that it saved my life, because that honor is reserved for other forms of music, but it got me through. It gave me enough comfort to get to the point where I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
That's one of the reason I think Nirvana is still relevant today, while being played on classic rock stations. (Sorry, for that making you feel old again thing...) Some part of us will always feel like we don't quite fit, but someone like Kurt crosses generations and speaks to new ones. There are moments where I feel lost inside myself and the only soundtrack that really fits is early 90s rock, with all it's wallowing and sense of disaffection.
I leave this with the best quote I found in the magazine about the album (that has little to do with anything I've written): "...Nevermind felt like the first entire album of my generation that didn't feel like it was on loan from the generation just before us."
That's one of the reason I think Nirvana is still relevant today, while being played on classic rock stations. (Sorry, for that making you feel old again thing...) Some part of us will always feel like we don't quite fit, but someone like Kurt crosses generations and speaks to new ones. There are moments where I feel lost inside myself and the only soundtrack that really fits is early 90s rock, with all it's wallowing and sense of disaffection.
I leave this with the best quote I found in the magazine about the album (that has little to do with anything I've written): "...Nevermind felt like the first entire album of my generation that didn't feel like it was on loan from the generation just before us."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
[Reflect]It's a New Day
...and a new blog. One that isn't full of comments from someone I miss with all my heart and daily reminders of how much things will never be the same. It's so easy for the world to move on and it seems like I'm stuck in this moment, doing my best to fake it. I don't want all the attention that other people seem to thrive on.
This is about new beginnings though. Perhaps there will be a little bit of dwelling on the past, because so often I just don't talk about it. All my wounds have festered for years and I'm pretty sure they're slowly poisoning my soul. I need to find a place where I find acceptance with who I've been and who I've become.
Because like RuPaul says: "If you don't love yourself, how the hell you going to love someone else?"
This is about new beginnings though. Perhaps there will be a little bit of dwelling on the past, because so often I just don't talk about it. All my wounds have festered for years and I'm pretty sure they're slowly poisoning my soul. I need to find a place where I find acceptance with who I've been and who I've become.
Because like RuPaul says: "If you don't love yourself, how the hell you going to love someone else?"
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