Tattoos Have Magical Healing Powers, A Thank You Note

For me, for all of my tattoos, they will all have deep meaning and easy meanings to explain. You don't want to stand there and explain to every assclown on the street how you got two portraits of your gramma because they remind you that true love does happen, that sometimes what you thought you were meant to do isn't really it, but it opens a path to something better, and that maybe you should take your chance on that shy farmer from the middle of the country. Or explain how you put the word love. With a period on your wrist to remind yourself that cutting isn't the answer, that love will happen for you and you are old fashioned (the font is a typewriter style). No one needs to hear those reasons. Instead, saying you love your gramma a lot, or that you love love, that satisfies most cravings for an explaination. You can always delve a bit deeper, explaining that your gramma is your inspiration for being the best you can be, and that you love writing and you create love with your hands even if you haven't managed to do that permanently with someone in your heart.

This tattoo that I just got, it'll be a bit harder to explain. I'm sure I will get a lot of the ruder comments, as someone has already pointed out to me- it looks like people can visibly walk all over me. I think that comment, that assumption, will always make me angry. I wish tiny feet like the ones I have on my body were around to walk on me, that I helped create the tiny feet that walk all over me. But instead, I have them on me for one main, painful reason. To recongize that I did miscarry, three times in my short life.

I know I'm young. I know I've been through so much that most people twice my age haven't had to endure. It's tough, it's shitty, but it's made me into this strong person that I am so proud of. I'm working on becoming who I know I can be, and I'm fighting to do it on my own terms. It's been in my head though, lately, that I won't have a simple answer for this tattoo. Not that everyone will see it, at least, not until the summer when I'm swimming, but still. Summer isn't that far away.

I asked a friend who knows what I'm handling this weekend, and he said he would think it meant you had three kids, or something. And it's true, in a way. I loved them the second I knew about them, and felt that loss just as hard each time, maybe harder the third time, which is why that footprint is blue and bigger.

I also realised what I'll say when I'm asked why I got three footprints on my body.

Because one day, when the time and person is right, I fully intend on having three kids. And if karma and the fates bestow some sort of luck and appease my desires, the first child I produce and get to keep, will be a boy.

I've had this tattoo for less than five days, and already it's calmed me. I'm still stupid sad and feel... the emptiness that a miscarriage has, but it's not desperate. I can remind myself to breathe through the tough patches, like I'm sure at 6am today I'll have to do. It was at that time, a year ago, that I woke up and knew something was wrong.

I'm shaking, I'm sad, I'm worried about life and what March will bring, but I'm okay. I'll be okay.
I have a lot of you to thank for that. For real. Knowing that you guys read this, however rambly and insane it is some times, it makes me feel like I'm not alone. I'm e-hugging the fucking shit out of you, and warning you now, I may scar your eyes with the tattoo. There's BRA in it, y'all. You've been warned. I may take more pictures later, when it's healed up- right now it's all dry and scabby looking.

Happy Superbowl Day.  

Tattoos and Ranting About the Whores

Alright, so, I went and got the tattoo tonight and it's fucking awesome. Hurt like a bitch but I didn't cry, and most of the guys who were in the shop witnessing my bloody adventure were impressed because the ribs are an intense place to get tattoos.

I have one picture but it's shitty and you guys deserve better (and I need to get over my self consciousness about my belly and such. I'm a fucking girl, alright? Jesus) and so I'm going to wait until after the hot hot hot shower and all the dried blood and excess ink is washed off and you can then see it.

I'm going to aim for a blog post a day, I think, in February. I'm already off to a really good start, I think.

Anywhore.

Tonight was a goddamn shitshow at work, which doesn't surprise me because I'm in pain and wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and watch t.v. online and have a grand ole time doing NOTHING.

Instead I get the crack addicts making noise, two party rooms creating havoc and drama fucking central with a room that had three girls in it. I say had because one girl came back early from the bar, bawling her face off like G-ma died, and then took all of her friends shit, brought it to the front of the hotel, threw it into the garden and checked herself out.

I sat here speechless through most of the ordeal. Offered her kleenex, called her a cab and checked her out. She was the one who rented the room, was responsible for it, and all the things were technically out of the room, so I could.

Four hours later, the bitches come back. Don't see their things immediately, but when they come back to the desk because their keys aren't working, I point them to outside and tell them to call a cab or pay for a room.

Yeah. I'm a total bitch sometimes.

Naturally, as calm, stable individuals they respected me and the hotel property and left quietly.




Or, instead, what they actually did....

-Freaked the fuck out
-Called their friend to freak the fuck out
-Curse
-Throw things
-Threaten
-Cry like bitch babies.

Cops hauled them off about an hour ago. I am not dealing with some crazy bitches while my side feels like it's on fucking fire, guys.

I hope everyone enjoys their Friday!

Bug Part Two and A Dedication of Love To You.

I've miscarried three times.
The first time, I barely knew about it. I know I've mentioned this and I'm repeating myself, but, it's how I process. I slept during a huge family dinner and my family thought I was dying because I didn't realise I was bleeding as badly, but I passed it off as a really bad period and they never suspected otherwise. No one found out about it until years after, when I miscarried the second time and divulged the information infront of my aunt.

The second time, I was with D. I was further along than the first pregnancy, but only about 8-9 weeks. Only made it to the first doctor's appointment, where they set you up with so many pee cups that you basically feel like you should be peeing into them instead of the toilet. I found out while my life was in turmoil, my boyfriend was in jail and I was trying to keep my life together and move the fuck out of a really nice place and into the ghetto hole I could afford. I told more people that time, but mainly because I was completely alone. When I started to miscarry, I drove myself. When I bled so badly the doctors were amazed I wasn't passed out, I was alone. My family was in the States for a wedding, and I had secluded myself to the point where I had only a handful of friends, and most did not drive or had no way to come to be with me at the hospital. It didn't matter, though, really. I was in quarantine because I was super sick, and with the drugs they gave me to stop the fetus from further stretching and possibly rupturing my tube, I was in a less than pleasant mood. The fact I couldn't even lean on my boyfriend, who, was still in jail at the time, made things more painful and made me more aware of my fuck ups than anything.

Bug was the third pregnancy. This one happened... way too soon. I admit to going through things, and dealing with them in a less than classy manner, but, whatever. Ya learn from your shitty mistakes. I got pregnant, I think, the day after my body decided it was healed from the second miscarriage. Did you know that even if you don't have an actual baby in your hands after it's all said and done, your body still takes at least 6 months to 'right' itself? For your eyesight, if it was bad, to go back to being as bad as it was, for your uterus to heal and for your body to be prepared to house another life. I mean, you can do it before, obviously, and it can take a lot longer too, but the average is 6 months. It was around six months after I miscarried and dumped D that I met Rockstar and got knocked up.

I wrote about Rockstar and the getting knocked up bit in part one. I missed the part where my grief for Bug is also intertwined with the loss of my uncle, who died either the week before or week after I conceived Bug. Either way, my entire family, who all knew about Bug because I had lasted almost into the 'safe' zone, they were all convinced that Bug was a sign from my uncle Pete that shit would be okay. That our family would be fine, and we'd have someone to focus on instead of grieve relentlessly, like we've been doing now.

I've meshed that, along with the bullshit that is going on with D, into losing Bug. Those things, finding out everything about D, and losing Bug, they all happened so closely together, in the span of less than a year, that it's really difficult for me to separate everything. I know logically and rationally that none of those things are related, but emotionally, I can't remove each thing. I think this is part of why it's taken me so long to move on from it, taken me so long to accept everything.

When I lost Bug, I had a friend I cared deeply for (still do, even with all the distance because of that event) staying with me. He had flown in from the east coast for a Superbowl weekend, and we were having a great weekend. I was still having cravings for really random, really healthy shit, so he was teasing me for that. We had brought my mattress into the living room so we would have a place to crash, because I was like an old lady who fell asleep halfway through the Superbowl. I remember waking up at 6am the morning after, having to pee, but something felt wrong.

I braced myself, calmed my nerves and crept to the bathroom where I found my underwear soaked in blood and a trickle running down my leg. I cried, but wasn't long or wet tears. My heart shattered, and it hurt to breathe for the next two minutes, while I peed and sat on the toilet, trying to think of where I had packed the pads and what I was going to do. I knew what was happening, after all. Two miscarriages already under my belt, it was something I was familiar with. I didn't really need to go to the doctors, but the pain was pretty intense and I was afraid that a tube or something had burst, so I changed, got shit all packed and ready and woke my friend up.

I hate the fucking nurses at my local hospital. I mean, I undersatnd that they're trying to do their job, but I was going in already with the knowledge I was losing my baby, and my friend, lord love him, was panicking because I wasn't showing emotion. I'm not that girl who bawls unless I broke something, or it seriously fucking hurts. I cry in private, because that's how I roll.

So, nurses were downright cunts, and I waited for four hours before a doctor even looked at my chart. I had lost a lot of blood, but that was expected and I wasn't really expecting anything special to happen. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't going to bleed out, y'know? That shit's kind of hard to get out of the carpet, and I was renting. So, doctor came in, did an ultrasound, confirmed I was miscarrying, and warned me that it was going to hurt because of the size of the fetus. I shrugged, because, thanks tips- further along, I bet that shit's probably bigger. 11 weeks and 5 days, to be exact. I made it almost 3 weeks further than the last pregnancy.

Anyways. I had to sit in the emergency waiting discharge room type thing, where OF COURSE there is a new family waiting, because the baby had a cold or something and the new mom was freaking the fuck out. I mean, karma seriously has loved to kick me straight in the cunt on my good days, kids. The new baby in the room bothered my friend more than me, because I was busy texting and calling my friends and family who knew to let them know. Eventually that was all done and I was still waiting (four hours later, I'd be able to go home), and the New Dad had left to go somewhere (probably get away from his crazy fucking wife) so the New Mom was left alone with the kid. Kid starts crying, Mom picks him up and starts walking, which brings her closer to me.

She makes small talk, and I'm morbid so I explain softly that I'm miscarrying right now. The crazy bitch then asks me “Oh, and they can't do anything about that?” and I look at her like she has five fucking heads. I shook my head, because words could not have been formed at that point. Then she asks me what it's like, having a miscarriage. While holding her newborn son, she asks me this. I, being the ridiculously polite human that I am, explain exactly what happens, and what it feels like. In every detail. To the point where she then backs away slowly, sits down and thinks about it. She didn't understand how I had just 'lost' the baby, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask if I felt sad about it.

Her husband came in halfway through, figured out what I was in for (I feel like a prisoner every time I say that) and took her out as soon as it was clear I had reached my limit of 'Educate the Moron Day'.

I was eventually released, and had gone back home to sleep and bleed, basically.

And then the pain started. Intense, crazy bad, my body went into labour and I wasn't at the hospital so all I had was some Advil. I stuck it out for four hours at home of puking from pain and blood clots the size of my fist (I shit you not, I had to get the plunger because my toilet was ghetto and wouldn't flush a couple of them down the drain) and finally my friend picked me up and took me back to the hospital. My parents had to come then, because they weren't sure if I needed surgery or what have you. I had probably the best nurse and doctor in the fucking place, because they picked up on my morbid sense of humor and sarcasm and rolled with it. When it was decided (oh yeah, WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION ABOUT MY LADY BITS COMING UP) that they'd have to go in and remove the fetus/sac/shit that kept my cervix dilated and open and profusely bleeding, the doctor asked if I wanted to roll or walk. I chose walk and he warned me if I passed out from the sudden blood loss he'd slap me with a wet cloth. My dad at the time was racing up and down the hall of the ER in a wheelchair, of course.

When my legs were up in the stirrups and the nurse had used my body as a prep table (seriously. I had to help take the shit out by holding all the gauze pads and other shit she needed) the doctor looked up from my junk and confirmed that I was aware I couldn't save the baby. I mocked him and acted shocked, asking him why he couldn't save my baby. He thought I was serious enough for a second that his face paled, but the nurse smacked me and told me to smarten up or she'd make him use the big needle.

No needles were actually involved. Instead, much to the dismay of my local doctor (I guess I should have gone under for it? It was supposed to be a super painful thing?) they did a sort of D&C. I only say sort of because according to people (aka my family doctor and nurses) I should have been put under, so it must not have been that, but to my understanding a D&C is when they go in and take all the shit out so you stop bleeding your blood supply out.

Waited twenty minutes, doctor asked if I wanted the good drugs (seriously. He even winked.) and I said no, I wanted my bed, and clean clothes (bloody, bloody mess. They let me go back to my room after the procedure with the bloody scrubs they had me put on when I got there, so I pretended to be a zombie coming back. My dad, fyi, hates blood and needles. Probably the best part of that whole experience was seeing him faint.) so they released me and I went home.

Worst thing work could have done, was make me take the week leave. I only wanted the extra night off, because I knew I'd be in pain and need to be able to pass out when it got to be too much, but work literally turned me away when I tried to take my shifts back. I love them, but I think I've proven that I overthink shit too much and work would have kept me more focused. So I had a week off, where I laid on my couch and watched Jersey Shore and Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless.




I go tonight at 630 to get the placement of the tattoo finalized and to get the tattoo done. I'm only showing/telling people who read my blog and a few friends who know me more 'real life' than you guys. I'm not hiding it, but I am. I love that I'm getting this tattoo, and I'm not regretting it in the least, it's just... this will be one of the tattoos I don't gush about. I have four tattoos I'll gush about, and one that's my 'rebel' tattoo (a black rose on my leg- it means more than me ignoring my mother when I was 18, but to explain all the meanings takes too long) but this tattoo is more... for me. It's going on my left ribcage, because my right side is taken up, and it'll be the first tattoo I get that has any colour to it.

Three footprints, two smallish, one mediumish which will be light blue. I'm super stoked for the actual process, it's been almost a year, but I'm also excited to have it. I just hope no one tries to tackle me or anything, because that will hurt like a mother fucker.

I love all of you, by the way. You guys are amazing, and fantastic, and reading everything you all say, has been awesome. Thank you for being here, and being my friend. I'd cut a bitch for all of you. Ninja style. 

Bug, Part One and a lot of other rambles

A Chicken Burger from Burger King.

No lettuce, just mayo.

I knew as soon as I had that craving, as soon as he left to go grab food, that something was up. And then I started trying to count back to find out when my last period had been. I've always fucking sucked at keeping track of that shit, but I always use condoms so it normally wouldn't have been a concern. Except for that one time, in a moment of ... passion? Whatever, stupidity, in the hallway before we could make it into my apartment. Apparently whatever karmic substance likes to fuck with me, decided I would get knocked up that night. I take full responsibility for that night, and for giving in. Shit happens. Whoops a babies happen.

Rockstar was a man who helped me heal from what D had shattered me into. I never had any disillusions that Rockstar and I would end up happily ever after. I wasn't looking for another relationship anymore than he wanted to date me. We had fun, and fun was all it was meant to be. Me getting knocked up threw everything into a fiery burning mess. He turned cold and cruel. I rose to my stubborn bitchy self and refused to back down when he pressured me to get an abortion. I gave him every out possible, told him that he could walk and I would never look for him again.

I meant it. I wasn't overly thrilled I had gotten knocked up, but, I've wanted to be a mom since I can remember. I'm a good fake mom, and I had and still have a job where I could support myself and the babe. I wasn't some teenager who had no education, however stupid my choices had been over the past year (then).

I remember telling Rockstar about Bug at work, in the stairs of my work, because he called during the Christmas party.

Today and this week, all I can think of are the friends who surrounded me with love, but also doubt and negativity. I'm finding the desperate amount of sadness is overwhelming me, and because of who I am and my character, it's pissing me off that I'm this sad. That I haven't been able to move on from it. I mean, fuck, it's been almost exactly a year. I've had two other miscarriages before Bug, and I can accept that maybe I wasn't supposed to have a kid just yet. So I need to buck up, and stop looking so fucking miserable.

Everyone's noticed, by now. It's annoying, because I'm such a private person that more than half of my Facebook friends, and friends outside of this place, don't know I've ever been knocked up, let alone suffered a miscarriage at 11 and a half weeks. So people are asking why I'm different, what's wrong, and they want to help. No one can help right now. I'm having those conversations again with myself, I'm containing the sad as best I can, I'm letting it out when I can and I'm surviving. You ask me how I am today? I say I'm surviving. It's not an invitation to as me what is wrong, or why just surviving, or to make some asshole comment about how I'd survive better if I was on top of you.

My entire body aches. My heart hasn't stopped hurting, and this week it feels like it's exploding. I have hatred towards my best friend, whom I live with, because she's going through a rough patch with her happy family and made the mistake of telling me a couple days ago that I was lucky I didn't have kids, that I'd be a moron to ever get knocked up by someone. I get that she's going through things and I know it's stressing her out, but I nearly clocked her. She saw the look in my eyes and kind of walked off.

Never fucking tell me that I'm lucky, or better off, or that kids are a mistake. I will gut you. I don't care what sort of shit you're going through, I don't fucking care that life gets stressful sometimes or that money is tight. You get to hold a precious fucking life, in your hands, and they are yours. No one, unless you treat them like absolute shit and CPS comes to take them, can take that away from you.

Ask any mother who's lost a baby. Any of them. We will all fucking cut a bitch for saying their children were mistakes.

It makes me scream, on a daily basis. I know how tiring and frustrating they can be. I've lived with my best friend since before the new baby was here, and when my niece was just a baby, they lived with me and my parents for six months. I took night shifts where I woke up with Ella, I would wake up in the mornings and take her so my friend could have some time to breathe. We shared the duties, far beyond me just watching the kid for a couple hours. I'm not as close to the new baby or my other best friends kids, but for my niece? I'd kill for her. I'd throw my body infront of something to save her, no questions asked. I'd probably do it for the others, but I'd probably try to find a way to save both of us, y'know. For Ella? No hesitation.

This week, I'm testy. I know this, and I'm trying to limit the exposure of it, but I hit a point during the day where I don't fucking care.

I bought a onesie this time. I had names. I had a plan, and I expected this shit to stick and for me to have an almost five month old in my arms, not to be alone. It hurt, but it also hurt my whole family. They all knew this time, so they all knew when I miscarried.

Fun fact: When I get really stressed, I normally go and get tattooed. I've known for a few months what I want, responsibility and lack of being awake during the regular human hours has made me hesitate. I'm sensing that responsibility shit cracking, though. Who knows, I might do it and upload pics.

Updated before I even posted it in the first place: Thursday, 630pm. Bitch is getting a tattoo.

I've been strangely calm and better, knowing this.

Month end was a whore, as per usual and the other hotel that has the same name as me in my city had no power, so I got a shit ton more work to do because of it. C'est la vie.