The Five Reasons I Get Out Of Bed Every Day. #3

This one is simple.

It's my husband.

He has tolerated more bull shit from me than anyone should have to. Seriously.

All of the weird pregnancy cravings. The crying fits because I couldn't find socks (his favorite pregnancy story to tell people). Working away from his family so we can have everything we need or want. Pulling endless hours at work. This list goes on and on.

Don't get me wrong. The past twenty years hasn't been sunshine and rainbows the entire time. In fact, a large chunk of it was spent angry, depressed, and arguing. (You can read about that here.)

Our is a love at first sight story. Yeah I hear you groaning, but it's true.

The minute he walked into the bar where I worked, I saw him and knew right then he was the one I wanted to marry.

When he didn't hit on me, after countless openings, I didn't become discouraged. I kept advancing and before he left, I asked for his phone number.

I waited a whole day before I called him. I was pretty proud of myself for not succumbing to the urges to phone him immediately that night. I was strong...

We talked for two hours that first night. It wasn't deep or meaningful, I couldn't even tell you the topics of conversation, but it was a start. Any logic left my body.

He was my dreamboat in Wranglers, a black felt cowboy hat, and cow skin boots.

He picked me up for our first date in his Chevy Blazer. He conveniently left out that it was older than me, had no exhaust, and rust everywhere. Turns out, I didn't care.

After dinner and drinks he brought me home and we sat in his truck and talked. I will never forget it. Here's how the conversation went.

B: There's something I need to tell you.
Me: Who is she? I'll kick her ass.
B: *chuckles* No, it's not like that at all.
Me: Then what?
B: *snickers and waits*
Me: C'mon! Out with it.
B: *smiles his smile that still makes my eyes flutter and my belly swim*
Me: You're married? You're a criminal?
B: Nope. *long dramatic pause* I'm gay.
Me: No you're not!
B: No, I'm just 20.
Me: Jesus! Seriously?!

I met him in a bar, and am not a pro at spotting fake IDs. He's said he was 23, just a year older than me. It lied! So his big secret was that he was younger than me.

He courted me for weeks, walking me up to my door, kissing me good night, and leaving as gentlemanly as he had been on all of our dates. No advances, no innuendos, nothing.

In my adult life, I hadn't dated (nor slept with) anyone like him. It was like the old cliché: Hook, line, and sinker.

That started the best love story of my life.

Twenty years later, sometimes we forget those moments, but you can see them now and again under a veil of looks or touches or words.

Sometimes, I'm not a very good wife to him. I think most marriages go through that. Ours goes through it often. When depression sneaks in and I can barely function, let alone cook a fantastic supper, it dulls everything around me, including the love of my life.

After several (early) years of hearing, "Just wake up and say, 'I'm going to be happy today' and you'll be fine," or 'Depression isn't real," he finally came to the realization that it is indeed real and his wife suffers from it.

Clicking the link above will take you to that side story. Oddly, love endures.

He still does the little things to make me feel special. I'm working on trying to remember to do the little things for him because I want him to know he's one of the reasons I get out of bed every day.

He's given me three of the greatest (albeit sometimes hair-raising) gifts on the planet and my life wouldn't be the same without him in it.

Yes, it sounds like a sappy love story, and it is, but it is much more than that to me.

It's a reason to live.

~Kim

photo credit: Wedding Rings (license)
Cowboys In The Dark (license)

Teaching Your Kids About...

Politics.

It's important, right?

In no time, they'll be bestowed the civil duty of casting their vote and in the age of voter decline, we need to teach them that their voice matters.

This can become a pretty sticky situation if you choose to impart only your beliefs on your children (age appropriately of course) rather than talk to them about important issues, teach them how to educate themselves, and let them make their own decisions.

This is probably one of the most (and some times least) effective ways of parenting for me.

By raising independent thinkers, I'm setting myself up.

I have one child who supports Donald Trump. We've had several conversations about it and it's been a series of comical errors.

I do not support Donald Trump. This makes our conversations very challenging because I want to shut him down and tell him that Donald is a blithering idiot, but I don't.

Instead, I ask him questions.

"What do you like about him?"

"What does he believe that you believe?"

"How is he going to make the country better for you?"

As he answers, we discuss. I try very hard to keep an open mind, because I want him to learn to be open minded. When he comes out with things such as, "He speaks his mind," I often counter with questions such as, "What specifically did he speak his mind about?" Questions like these make him think. They make him actually listen to what is being said, analyze it, and make a decision.

Yay, critical thinking!

Our conversations started out with things such as, "Well, he's rich, and he's famous."

They have evolved into, "Did you hear what he said about *insert random thing here*?"

Then we talk about the other candidates. We talk about Hillary Clinton, her stance on the issues, and what she plans to do for our country.

We talk about what it means to be a public figure. We've also talked about how nominees make tons of promises they may never be able to bring to fruition because there's a balance system in place.

He knows I'm a Sanders supporter. He knows why. We've talked about women's rights, immigrants, financial reform, and a plethora of other topics.

The best thing you can do for your kids when it comes to politics (and they're old enough to understand the issues unlike my nine year old who thinks a girl president would "kick butt") is educate them. Let them draw their own conclusions and DO NOT under any circumstances push what you think they should believe on them.

While we get a plethora of beliefs and morality from our family, pushing them blindly into what adults believe isn't going to solve any of the world's problems. They're eventually going to be adults who need to learn how to research, educate themselves, and make informed decisions.

Teach them how to think for themselves and they will run the world!

~Kim


photo credit:
Voter via Free Images(license)
New York Primary 2016 via photopin (license)

We've Got Spirit...

Yes we do! We've got spirit! How 'bout you!

If you ever went to a high school football game, you've either chanted it for your team or heard it chanted.

I've got no spirit.

None.

I feel a little guilty because I'm not out supporting the local high school on Friday nights, freezing my ass off, cheering on the football team. Not guilty enough to change the fact, but a little bit.

I'm all for supporting schools, as long as I don't have to be involved.

I used to be involved in everything. PTA, classroom volunteering, and all the other crazy stuff that moms do.

Now, I have no desire to do any of it. I'll buy the kids spirit wear. I'll send money for stuff. I'll even let my kids sell the outrageously priced fundraising stuff to people we know. I'm also about to vote yes for a referendum in our school district that will up my property taxes because I know they need it to keep our schools functional.

I WORK in the school system. Very part-time and relatively unattached, but I'm in the schools.

I figured out why.

I'm bitter.

It's not the school's fault. It's my expectation's fault.

I had expectations for my kids.

One is busting his ass to live up to them (even though I never specifically shared them with him, just keep shoving him in the direction I'm hoping is best for him).

One is fighting the system.

And the other one is just too young for me to know yet.

Let me tell you what I'm bitter about.

I'm bitter that my oldest son is disabled (and don't feed me the bullshit about "differently abled"). I'm bitter that he's so smart, but his ears don't work very well and that's made life hard for him. I'm bitter that he can't successfully go to the local high school and has to live far from home to get the opportunities that he deserves. I'm bitter that most (I know several who don't fit this bill) see a kid who's got a deaf accent and is socially awkward instead of a kid who's good at sports and just wants to fit in. I'm bitter that he may actually be talented enough to go beyond and they no amount of school spirit will help him overcome the obstacles he'll have to maneuver around.

I'm bitter that my middle son is such a challenge. Yep, you read that right. Now here's why. He's smart, but thinks he's dumb. He's lazy (like his mother was back in the day). He was supposed to be different. Yep, you read that right too. He was supposed to be my reward for struggling with the oldest one. I'm bitter because no amount of school spirit will solve any of the issues that I have worked so hard and failed to improve.

I'm bitter that my daughter is just like me. She's athletic. She's smart. She's doing well in school. She's social. I'm terrified about her future.

Most of all, I'm bitter that I'm bitter.

I'm supposed to be this parent who is capable of raising her children without ranklement.

~Kim

photo credit:
Megaphones
Lemons 

I Love Facebook...

...but holy shit there's a lot of stuff on there that drives me insane!

This political season cannot end soon enough.

I'm tired of people pointing their fingers at whomever the opposer of their candidate is and screaming in accurate information and accusations. At first, no matter which side it came from, I tried to do a little research, provide the link to some solid information, and viola! Problem solved...

Well, we both know the problem solved part is a load of horseshit.

People are going to believe what they want to believe. They're going to skew statistics, speculate with information, and align the facts to their perspective.

I've accepted that.

Okay. That's a lie. It's secretly driving me loonie!

Huh. Well. I guess it's not a secret anymore.

In the age of instant media, it is incredibly difficult, near impossible, to fact check every piece of information that is reported from the, now, millions of different news outlets. The Internet has opened up a vast arena for anyone and everyone to report whatever it is they deem news.

You have liberal sites, conservative sites, patriot sites, gossip sites, more liberal sites, more conservative sites, militant sites, I could go on for pages!

They all skew the news to suit their particular agenda with absolutely no one to keep them in check. There's always a lot of finger pointing:

"So and so said this."
"No, So and so did NOT say this."
"So and so ate an elephant with a spoon."
"No one saw So and so eating an elephant with a spoon."

et cetera...et cetera....et cetera...

Back when I was much much much younger, there were three major television broadcast companies. ABC, NBC, and CBS (FOX came along a bit later). There was no reason for one-upmanship other than to report more details so the viewers watched your new program.

Don't get me wrong, there was still fear mongering because you could get much less of the story at a time and when you did get it, it was probably a couple of days old in some cases.

No twenty-four hour news channels who feed their anchors entertainment most of the time rather than facts. Entertainment sells. The days of Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and Walter Cronkite are slowly inching away in the rear-view mirror.

If you don't know who Walter Cronkite was, look it up.

We're exchanging it for overly made-up, oddly dressed, and decidedly intellectually inferior faces who are being fed their stories and having arguments with their guests.

Nobody seems to care!

Instant gratification societal demands are dumbing us down and making us slaves to our computers, phones, and televisions. And not the good kind of slave that comes with a much needed spanking at the end of the day.

Do yourself a favor. Have your opinions. Find your own facts. Remember eighty percent of what you read is bullshit. Make your own decisions.

~Kim



 photo credit:
Historical Stock Photos dot com 
FreeImages.com/Erhkin Sahin

The Five Reasons I Get Out Of Bed Every Day #2

My kids.

Yes, I hear you groaning because you saw that coming.

I didn't say they would all be surprising or groundbreaking. Get over it.

My kids have been a reason I get out of bed every day for the last seventeen (nearly eighteen!) years.

At first it started out as simple motherhood. This new person, that you cooked for nine, sometimes ten, months has come bursting into the world. You're excited. You're exhausted. You're in love.

It's a love like you have never known before that very moment.

You love your parents (most of you), you love your spouse (some of you), and you love yourself (a few of you), but this love is like absolutely none of those.

This love is so incredibly hard to describe other than you'd walk across a room of flaming Legos, barefoot, and naked to make sure they are happy.

My kids are no exception to that rule.

I get out of bed so that my hypochondriac daughter can ask me for bandages for non-existent wounds.

I get out of bed so that my emotional teenager can yell at me because my other emotional teenager ate MY ice cream (doesn't even have to be theirs!).

I get out of bed because I've learned over the years that if it's too quiet, someone is up to no good.

The older they get, the easier it is to convince myself they don't need me anymore.

I've raised pretty independent kids.

What the hell was I thinking?

My depression has taught them to be independent. It controls me a lot more than I like to let on.

They love me. They love that we can laugh and be silly together, even though they're growing up. They love that they can talk to me about anything. And I do mean anything.

One of my favorite stories to tell is when the middle one and I were in the car heading somewhere (I can't even remember where) and the song "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake came on the radio. From the back seat I hear:

"MOM! Turn that off! I can't listen to that song it has the S word in it!"

I'm wracking my brain trying to figure out where Justin says shit in the song by playing the lyrics in fast forward in my brain (can't remember much of my childhood, but song lyrics, my memory level is stellar. Go figure.).

"B, he doesn't say shit in this song."
"No! The OTHER S word!"

Now, I'm completely confused.

"There IS no other S word!"

Quiet whisper from the back, "Sexy."

Trying my best not to laugh I say, "Sexy isn't a bad word. You're fine."

"Is has the SEX word in it!"

"You're nine, you don't even know what sex is."

"I do too!"

We're stopped at a stop light at a major intersection and I made the mistake of saying. "What do you think sex is, B?"

Are you ready? I wasn't!

"Sex is when a boy and a girl take their pants off and then rubs his thing on her butt."

Speechless.

Totally and utterly speechless.

After what seems like an endless minute I manage, "Who told you that?"

"My friends."

"They're wrong. When you think you're ready to know what sex actually is, you come and talk to me. You're friends are stupid."

That opened the door to some of the weirdest conversations I've ever had in my entire adult life.

But, I'll have them. A million times if I have to because I love them and I want them to know that nothing is off the table to talk about.

The little one has talked to me about her desire to be a boy.

"Mom, I want to be a boy."

"Why?"

"Because they can do things girls can't and they like boy things."

"First of all, girls can do whatever they want and they can like whatever they want. The only difference between boys and girls is that if girls stand up to pee, they'll most likely pee on their shoes!"

Gales of laughter.

"I like to get dirty."

"Do I ever stop you from getting dirty?"

"No."

"Next."

"I like black."

"Okay. So you're telling me only boys can like black?"

"That's what this girl said."

"She's wrong."

"Oh."

"So, it sounds like the only difference between you and a boy is a penis and we'll get to that later."

"Huh. I didn't know. Thanks, Mom."

The oldest told me about the first time he too a drink of a beer with his friends.

"Mom, I have to tell you something."

*deep breath waiting for the worst* "What's up?"

"When I spent the night at (some kid's name I can't remember)'s house, his parents were gone until like three in the morning."

"Oh. I didn't know that. Okay. What did you guys do?"

"Well, (same kid that I can't remember)'s brother gave us some beer."

"Oh yeah? Did you drink it?"

"Yeah."

"Did you like it?"

"No."

"Good. Remember that."

"You're not mad?"

"Nope."

"Cool."

I get out of bed every day because I never know when those small, yet life changing, conversations have to happen and it's my job to make sure they understand whatever life throws at them.

I have an amazing work ethic for a depressive. I always have.

I remind myself every day that I need to get out of bed and be present, if not interactive, in their lives.

If they didn't have me, the kids would flounder. Granted they'd still have their dad and grandma, but they play different roles,

If I were selfish and didn't force myself to be present, they wouldn't know that I would do anything in the world to help them, to listen to them, and even to take away their pain if I can.

Depression sometimes forces us to be selfish. It calls to me to stay in bed, the kids are old enough to fix their own breakfast. They have electronics to entertain them. They don't need me.

Sometimes the fight is exhausting.

Sometimes the fight is easy.

This fight is one that's always worth it.

~Kim

The Five Reasons I Get Out Of Bed Every Day. #1

There are reasons in this world who are worth getting out of bed for, no matter how bad you feel.

The first reason that I get out of bed every day is the fact that if I don’t, I’ll have to deal with my mother. 

I make it a point to never have to deal with my mother, if I can avoid it.

I know that sounds mean, but hear me out.

I love my mother. I love her more than I can express (without making anyone else jealous), but she’s my mom. She’s the one who remembers every damn thing I’ve done wrong in my entire life. Everything. She also has no problem reminding me of every, single, solitary one of them. 

Individually and repeatedly.

We had a family holiday get together over Easter and we were sitting on her deck chatting and she remarked how I am terribly senile for my age. I laughed and looked at my adoring family members and proceeded to blurt out the most hilariously inappropriate thing that I could have possibly said to her.

“Yeah! You’re the one needs to be senile, but no! You remember shit from 40 years ago!”

Fortunately, she has a wonderful sense of humor, as do the majority of my extended family. After it was said, there was raucous laughter, jubilant agreement, and amused muttering.

See, my mom is pretty special. She survived the death of a husband, raising me, working in the insurance industry (which is a feat in itself), breast cancer, and a heart attack. The kicker is, she still has the energy to piss me off and remind me of what I could have been.

Yes, I realize she just wants me to be successful, but what she doesn’t realize is that I suffer from depression. I don’t talk to her about it, but that’s only to save myself the lectures about what I should and shouldn’t do.

I’d rather just deal with her like I always do. With humor and sarcasm.

Luckily, it’s not hard to do. We both have a very twisted sense of humor. It comes out when we least expect it. It also makes for some pretty fun conversations.

The kicker on this one? She can remember every single one of them. I cannot.

My memory is like a slow fog on a lake.

It’s deep, but patchy. You can see parts of the lake, but never the whole thing at once. The fog rolls from one side of the lake to the other, exposing it in bits and pieces that are constantly changing. Someone can give you a description of the view that should be there in order to help fill in the gaps, but the lake is not whole while the fog remains.

My mom is the one who fills in the gaps.

I sat here tonight thinking about things. Trying to remember third grade and came up with nothing.

I thought to myself, “Eh, that was thirty-five years ago. Not a big deal.”

So I moved further into the future, high school. I remember doing things. I remember who I was friends with. I remember who I dated, but I struggled to come up with any solid memories of any events over the course of the four years I was there.

My mom remembers. She remembers all of my special events. How I looked, who I went with, the first time she saw a hickey on my neck (to this day she still refers to him as Hoover lips), the fights, the struggles. She remembers it all and as I sit here writing this, unless I have the photos sitting in front of me, I can’t recall details.

She can recall the first time I missed curfew and how she hauled my boyfriend’s friend out of the window of his car and threatened him if it ever happened again. She remembers how mortified I was. I don’t.

She’s my rock, and if I didn’t get out of bed in the morning, she’d call and call and eventually show up, come in the house, yell at me about what a wreck it is and how I’m slacking off, and to get my lazy ass out of bed. Then, she’d cook me pancakes.

She’s definitely the first reason I get out of the bed in the morning.

~Kim

I'm Afraid It's Already..

...starting.

If you know me, you know its no secret one of my boys did extremely poorly in school last year. He was being picked on and he just couldn't make himself do the work....I couldn't make him either and I tried EVERYTHING!

Punishment, rewards, incentives, negation, negotiation, helicopter parenting, tutoring, yelling, jumping up and down...You name it, I tried it, but nothing worked.

He wasn't a troublemaker. Although, he has a mouth he often forgets to turn off.

Gee, I wonder where he got that from...

He didn't get into any physical altercations.

He didn't get sent down to the principal for behavioral issues.

I never got phones calls about his classroom behavior. (Although, I did get phone calls about his missing assignments and lack of work...usually when it was too late to do anything about it)

He's a good kid who just can't teach himself how to persevere through hours of lectures and worksheets.

He's an athlete. Well, he was an athlete until his grades sank so low they were the Titanic's new neighbor.

Now he's in a program that allows students to work at their own pace. They read, take notes, and then test. He doesn't change classrooms. His teachers come to him. It's a relaxed environment, as long as he's working.

Sounds perfect!

At first, when it was suggested, I went bat-shit crazy. I was angry, but the more I heard about the program the more I thought it was right in his wheelhouse.

Until today.

It's the first day of school. We'd already been through schedule pick up. Got his books and his ID. All set!

He came home today and the first thing he showed me was that he got a new ID. It's purple. Made to stand out. Made to label him as a kid who couldn't do well in a traditional classroom setting. Made to isolate him from the rest of the school. In his words, "It's so everyone knows I belong in ***."

This program has a separate entrance for these particular students. They eat lunch before all of the other students in the school. They are released out of this particular set of doors.

Absolutely NO interaction with the general population of the high school.

The more I think about it, the more upset I get. I haven't quite gotten to the point of angry yet, but I can feel it brewing like the humidity lets you know a storm is coming.

He's not a deviant.

I don't want him to become a deviant.


He doesn't even have a chance to eat lunch with this friends.

I'm sure he's not the only student that's not a deviant that's in this program, but he's the only one that's mine.

Did I throw him to the wolves?

While I understand that everyone's high school experience is different, do I want his to be one of isolation and labeling?

~Kim

It's That Time Of Year...

For back to school!

I'm doing my happy dance! Two of the kids started school today. The oldest moves back on Sunday.

It's funny. The last half of the summer I spent looking forward to these days. Ahhhh! My peace and quiet is back!

I get to start back to my (extremely) part-time job, which I love, soon!

Maybe I can get back to work on my second book.

I can finally get the house clean!

Now, I'm bored.

All of those things no longer appeal to me.

I actually miss the eighty-five bazillion interruptions that I complain about.

The kids are getting older and it makes me realize that soon, it will always be quiet.

Soon, the house will not be a wreck because there will be no children home to mess it up.

Soon, I'll be pining for phone calls or texts.

Soon, I'll be free.

I've never been so depressed to think about freedom.

~Kim

How To Tell Your Kid Is...

...competitive.

It's really easy.

My oldest son loves sports of all kinds.

He's very dramatic when he watches "his teams" play. It's comical and I love spending time with him in those moments, even though I have to say things like, "don't yell so loud! It's eleven o'clock and the neighbors are sleeping!", or "Your sister is in bed, you're shaking the whole house jumping around like a lunatic."

The other day I was sitting on the porch and he comes running outside excitedly.

OS (Oldest Son): "I'm watching the USA in fencing!"
Me: Cool. (clearly not sharing in his enthusiasm)
OS: They're winning 2-0!
Me: Awesome.
OS: runs back in the house
Me: (to my mom on the phone) OS is watching fencing.
Mom: Oh I should by him and MS swords!
Me: You've GOT to be kidding me! pause Oh my God, Mom! He's cheering like he's watching a basketball game! He's yelling directions at the TV and everything! (mind you I'm still sitting on the porch and he's in the back of the house)
Mom: hysterical laughter
OS: (from in the house) Yeah boy! Get him! YES! YES! YES! (comes flying out the door) THEY WON! USA WON! Now I'm going to watch water polo.
Me: blank stare

Being the parent of a competitive athlete is always entertaining.

~Kim

School Is Drawing Near...

...and I'm frantically trying to keep up!

Between schedules, move-in dates, and school supplies, I might be a little crazy!

Trying to get the kids back on some sort of a sleeping schedule before the first day of school is always challenging. The older two think they can just snap right into it, but Mom knows better. The little one thinks she gets enough sleep staying up until eleven o'clock and getting up at 8:30 in the morning. Again, I know better.

Last night went something like this:

Me: If you don't get to bed before one, I'm changing the password on the WiFi.

MC (Middle Child): Oh c'mon, Mom! It's not a big deal!

Me: I'm serious.

MC: *snickers* No you're not.

Me: Dammit, MC, why do you have to test me. Now you're going to be mad.

MC: Doubt it.

Me: pulls plug on router

MC: *5 minutes later* HEY! What happened to the WiFi?! I was having the game of my life with my clan leader. I'm probably going to get kicked out of the clan now. Thanks a lot, Mom.

Me: walks upstairs with the cord to the router I told you you were going to be pissed. Now go to bed.

Ahhhh parenting at its finest!

~Kim

Functioning at a High Level...

...is overrated.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

School is coming up oh-so-quickly. I've been counting the days, since baseball ended that is. The kids have been bored and I've been at a physical standstill.

I berate myself daily about how little I've gotten done.

Truth be told, I have zero motivation. None. Zip. Zilch.

I thought it would return after The Patriarch went back out of town. Knowing I didn't have the advantage of waiting for him to do it should have kicked me into high gear. Instead, it has put me in complete Park mode.

I do the absolute minimum that I'll let myself get away with. Which, some days, is no more than getting out of bed and making sure the kids aren't killing each other.

This often incurs lectures from my mom about how I need to, "get off my ass," to quote her directly.

What my mom, and countless other people, haven't come to understand is that no matter how much I want to "get off my ass," sometimes I just cannot.

I go to bed thinking about all the things that I want to accomplish the next day because I managed so little that particular day. I have lists of things that should be done. In my defense, if it's pressing and needs to get done I do it, but if it can wait, it does.

I put on a pretty good front for my acquaintances, most wouldn't guess that behind closed doors I suffer from debilitating depression. Hell, some of my close friends were shocked when they figured it out.

I'm not depressed in a way that makes me suicidal. I have too much to live for. Those three pains in my ass, The Patriarch, and my mom are the first five things that come to mind. Although, I do wonder at times if they wouldn't be better off without this lump that can go from quietly reading to ready to snap at break-neck speed. That's always as far as it goes.

I sit in front of my computer every day with the intention to work on my next book. Every. Single. Day. Then the voice in my head starts. It questions why I even bother, I'll never be good, I'll never be a best seller. It tells me all the negativity surrounding everything I do. Sometimes, I reach in the back of my brain and kick his ass, other days, he wins. I don't write.

Everything that I enjoy doing has its own voice of doom. Even things that I don't enjoy doing but are an evil necessary have one.

When it's time to work, "Don't take that job, you're not a real teacher anyhow."

When it's time to play, "They only hang out with you because they feel bad for you."

When it's time to clean, "Why bother, it won't ever be good enough."

When there's time for sex, "Seriously, you want to get naked? Have you seen yourself?"

Every. Damn. Thing.

And sometimes I fight it off and I win, but most of the time, I just sit there. Sit there and do nothing until the shame spiral leads me deep into the catacombs where it takes days or weeks to even attempt to function again.

So, if you see me out, know that day I kicked that little bastard's ass. If I don't answer my phone, know I'm battling or recouping. If you see a blog post after some time of silence, I won the skirmish, but not the battle. It's that complicated.

~Kim