Daddy Issues

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I had to stop drinking but I had to start back,   cause I’m always fucking feeling like I’m running in a pack of only fucking one and I got no fuckin gun, and got no fuckin fun and when I was young my dad called me son I thought it didn’t bother me until i was past  thirty then I started realizing that shit was kinda dirty, i wasn’t just a girl, I was a pretty ass girl, who had in her palm the whole entire world but i didn’t even know it and all i did was blow it and  when I turned 18 …DOPE was only chosen …my whole fucking life been a slow sUiCiDe all out in the open I didn’t try to hide…or so I thought but I was really fucking wrong and  Now I know all  the words to my poor swan song that so far never really seems to END and when I think it is HAS that really means BEGIN a whole new chapter with ONE LESS FRIEND  and i’m trapped with some lions and I’m in their den and they didn’t invite cause I’m NOT so polite sometimes I’m rowdy and sometimes I  fight and when that shit happens you better run from my sight… demons coming  outta me tends to fright so run away fast RUN AWAY FAST and run to the light I’ll meet ya when you get there after you fall from your

height….

 

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Apollo

The alcohol is tearing my stomach up but that doesn’t matter while I fill up my cup

childhood demons coming  hard and fast don’t know how much longer I can last

everywhere I go the trouble seems to follow I put on my nikes and run like Apollo

I wanna get away I don’t want to wallow and the  pill life gives I don’t wanna swallow

so here I am and I’m stuck like stupid because I let an arrow from  cupid

hit my heart in the weakest spot, and now that bitch got me in a headlock

I’m at jesus door going  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK,  answer the door please don’t keep it locked.

I’m standing out here in the pouring ass rain and I hate that I am here once again

it seems like all I feel is nothing but shame, and that is a feeling so loaded with pain

I look all around for someone to blame

I look all around for someone to blame

but they’re gone, not coming back, and now I  feel an anxiety attack

coming to hit me always from the back rubbing my nose in all that I lack

 

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

 

I have to believe it only seems like i’m failing

when the truth is that I am probably sailing

across every ocean always prevailing

even when life seems so unavailing

I am a tough ass bitch this I do know

lemons in my garden are the only thing that grow

eyes all burning but I go with the flow

except I do it backwards, it’s part of my show

One day I will finish this lifetime race

running to the goal of unfettered grace

Jesus in my pocket HE IS MY ACE

it’s hard to believe he hasn’t turned his face

I feel so worthless most of the time

blaming myself for my father’s crimes

but then the wind blows and I can hear the chimes

and the slow still voice points out the landmines

beloved run here, don’t run there

the mothafucking landmines are everywhere

watch where you step, walk with care

and when you feel lonely find the sun and just stare

fuck whose watching…why the fuck care?

if you feel shame just let down your hair

and know they’re all numbered, my dear Sarah

I love all my children but you are fairer

keep that thought close in your desolate land

while you know you can always take my hand

I’ll walk you through the valleys of sand

and Ill get you to the promised land

keep your chin up while you get a tan

the place I am taking you is fucking grand

I tell no lies, I AM the Son of man

I tell no lies, I Am the Son of man

 

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

 

 

 

 

 

 

That One Semester

I think out of all the repurcussions stemming from my childhood, the one that pisses me off the most is that I buried all of my talents.

I am a very creative person, I always have been.  I am both musically and artistically inclined.  I knew I was good at music because my parents forced me to be in the band in Jr. high, and I was excellent at it.  But because they forced me to do it, I became angry with it and I began to hate it, vehemently.

By the time I reached 8th grade, I had multiple superior awards from Solo and Ensemble festivals.  I could play the clarinet like nobody’s business, and I never even practiced, at home.

The summer before 8th grade, I tried out for drum major and I won.  I did practice my ass off to win that prize, but once football season hit and I was out on the field, or leading the band in the bleachers, I quit.

I only was drum major for one game.  It was just way too much spotlight on me leading the band nerds, when all I really wanted was to be free of that dorky shit and hang out with the cool kids.

I could kick my ass for that now….and I guess I do…and I guess I have, for a long time.

My step-mom finally relented on band when I got to high school, and I was set free.  The only reason they let me out of band was because they intended for me to go to LSU and there were several course requirements that had to be met and being in band would take away two credits a year that I could be putting toward Physics and Biology 2.

So…fast forward to High School Graduation…

I graduated with honors and I was, honestly, mind-blown about that.  I ended my high-school career with a 3.67 GPA, which was completely due to my diligent studying 9th and 10th grades.  By the time I got to the middle of my junior year, I was sneaking out, drinking, smoking weed and not giving a fuck about school.  I have no idea how I passed Algebra 2 or Physics my senior year.

But I did.

I was excited to go to college, but I wanted to get as far away from my parent’s house as possible.  I got accepted to every state school to which I applied and when I sat down with my dad to discuss where I would be attending he said to me, “Son, you have two choices.  You can either go to LSU or you can go to LSU.”

My blood boiled.

He said not only could I only go to LSU, but that I could not live in a dorm room, or anything cool like that, I would be living at Salem’s Lot and commuting.

I can’t lie, though, once I settled in my first semester at LSU, I loved it.  The school is huge, I didn’t know ANYONE, there were very friendly squirrels in the Quad, and I really, really enjoyed that one semester.

 

Not Now, nor, forevermore

It makes me mad that I have to watch my back when I walk out my back door to let my dog go pee.

Seriously….I don’t think you know the struggle.

It’s like this everywhere I move.

Now…one might say, “Well, Athena, don’t you think since it happens everywhere you move, that it is possible that YOU ARE THE PROBLEM?

Yeah….I get that.

But the problem is, they do shit FIRST, and so my actions are a fucking REACTION.

And yes…I do realize that neither the black neighbors, nor the white ones, were expecting the reaction they received from their own actions…

NEVERTHELESS….

I put up with way too much shit as a youngster, to take any now.

So fuck them all.

I am the sweetest, most forgiving, loving ASS MEAN BITCH YOU WILL EVER WISH YOU NEVER MET.

An Excercise In Realness

When I woke up, this morning, I can’t lie, I was scared to look at my WordPress account.  It literally took me 2 hours to look.  There were no likes, except from a good friend of mine.

People are so disappointing to me.

I am disappointing to me.

If there is nothing else I get from this blog, it is the opportunity to EXCERCISE REALNESS.

I guess we all just want the “realness” that Reality TV provides….

Seriously??

I was upset yesterday, over a plethora of things of which I wouldn’t write.  I only wanted to write about my anger.

I hate being the bitch who whines about how horrible her life is and how all she wants to do is die.  I refuse to be the bitch who has to preface my post with  ASTERISK  CAUSE  I AM TALKING ABOUT ALL SHIT SUICIDAL.

I ain’t her….but those who are her, get TONS OF LIKES AND ALL THAT “FEELING SORRY FOR YOU CRAP”….I know, because I am the first to like all of those kinds of posts, BECAUSE I RELATE TO THEM.

am i truly that hard to relate?

When I go writing about my real feelings, I  will,  inevitably, always make that shit rhyme, and then instead of someone hearing my real shit that’s going on, they get a nice little poem, because I am still incapable of writing about the REAL SHIT that distresses me.

But last night I got balls to the wall DRUNK.

And honestly…I really do believe I said a bunch of the same shit other people want to say, but won’t because even if they’re drunk….they can’t.

People are the biggest stumbling  block in my life….if only they weren’t.

I would be fucking President….or at least mayor.

Ok…this IS FUNNY…I’m your trap queen

You GOTTA know you reading a BORDERLINE BITCH’S BLOG, when she tries to push away her own followers…

OMG…I am fucking sick.

Therapist?

Red Rover

I posted this one a year ago…I suppose I’ve made a modicum of progress since then…

Athena's Wicked Owl

Just my normal fucking chaos, that’s all it really is…Like a Nathan’s fucking hot dog with some mustard and some jizz.  I got a mean ass voice all in my fucking head…telling me go fuck myself, you really should be dead….I’m in the ring and fighting that bitch sounding so much like myself and I’m sick of hearing her voice that bitch is fucking with my health…If only she could do something productive with herself….i HATE THAT BITCH; I FUCKING HATE HER TAKE HER OUT OF ME…I swear to Christ she needs to go cause I can hardly fucking breathe.  I’m almost fucking 40 and there’s been no damn reprieve; this demon spawn has stole my soul just like a fucking thief.

I know God fucking hears me and he’s been listening my whole life…watching and he’s laughing as I struggle being (wife)…a mother, a sister and a fucking goddamn…

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Lucifer’s Got Jokes

Ok, at the risk of completely making myself out be the things my ex in-laws, and others, imagine me to be….

I’m totally interested in magick and Gremoires and mysticism and Archangels and Goetia…basically GOD/YAH in all of HIS MIGHTY FORMS.

And…I do have a super-power or two.

Those were not easily acquired.  One does not become able to posses magic unless one proves itself responsible….and no, this is not a blanket statement, I understand that there are varying degrees of black magic…anyway…I was watching a guy on youtube earlier doing an evocation of Lucifer.

The video was playing the whole time I was putting on my make-up, and that takes about 40 minutes.

So, I guess I had Lucifer on the brain when I put my headphones on and asked Him to be my DJ (being the “DJ” is when I put all the hundreds of songs on my mp3 and hit “shuffle”)….and this is what Lucifer wants to play…

NO SHIT.

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I love the dark side’s sense of humor…it’s much like my own.

Witches And Rope Swings

I was so excited when my husband moved back into our home.  We had been separated for two years.  He moved in with his parents, and the kids and I stayed at our house.

When he moved out in 2009, our youngest child was only five months old.  We also had a one and half year old and a three-year old.  We also had my four-year old from a previous relationship and after my husband moved out, my oldest child, from my first marriage moved in with me.

Even though we were separated, I loved my husband very much and I was very faithful.  In fact, right before we separated I was “saved” and began attending church.  Since my husbands family consists, mostly, of STRICT SOUTHERN BAPTISTS, I thought that surely, that in Jesus saving me, his family would begin to like me.

I really did yearn for the love and approval of my in-laws but since I was a “wrong side of the tracks” girl, they never approved of me.

I never was really too sure of why they didn’t approve of me.  After all, my dad and my stepmother, who raised me are “upstanding citizens” of their community.  At that time, my step-mom was finishing her twenty-plus year career teaching at the biggest high school in the parish school district.  She even won the “teacher of the year” award, FOR THE ENTIRE PARISH, one time.

That was pretty impressive.

Nevertheless, my in-laws hated me from the second they met me and back then I was so green and naive about the ways of traditional small-town southern baptist wives, that it took me at least three years to catch on to the way my mother-in-law spoke to me.  I finally realized that every sweet, sweet thing she said to me was dripping with so much passive-aggression, that I believe if she didn’t live 25 miles away, the acid from her words would be able to traverse the distance, through the phone line, and melt my ears into a puddle.

For instance, absolutely every time she called me, she would open with, “Well, hey (my name), I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I laugh at how dumb I was then, because she usually only called me mid-afternoon.

When you have four small children…you don’t fucking sleep til mid-afternoon, unless you’re on heroin, and I wasn’t.

In retrospect, I am glad I gave her the benefit of the doubt..er….didn’t know she was totally insulting me, because my reaction was always as sweet as a fresh peach cobbler.

“Awwww, no ma’am!  Me and ******** and ***********  outside playing while ******** inside taking a nap?  How are you, today?  I’m so glad you called, I have been meanin to call you but it’s hard to get a moment to come up for air with all these children underfoot….I’m so sorry, Ms. poo”.

I don’t think I ever realized the degree of hatred my husband’s family had for me until                 July 4, 2011, right after my husband moved back into our family home.

I was invited for the very first year to my husband’s family reunion.  It was held at a really cool camp ground on the Tickfaw river.  All of the family was there and I was as sweet and polite as anyone could be.

And, I was genuinely sweet and polite.

There were several children there, including our three youngest children, and everyone was having a really good time.  The water felt good, the day was nice, and there was much shade and covered picnic tables.  There was also great food there.

There were also two rope swings.

One of the rope swings was obviously for children only, but the other was way up high.  To get to the high rope swing, you literally had to scale a wooded hill about 20 to 30 feet high.  My five-year old son and my four-year old daughter started scaling the cliff to get to that rope swing.

My “mommy” kicked in and I was thinking, “oh hell no…my baby ain’t jumping in there first!”

By the time I had made the trek up the mountain to stop him, he had already mounted the rope swing and was plunging into the water.  There were a couple of other boys who followed behind him.

I made it to the swing right as my four-year old was contemplating swinging off into the water. She was a bit scared, and we were so far up above the water, that I was scared, too.  My daughter’s fear wasn’t swaying her decision to jump.

I suggested that we swing together, but my husband, at the time, who was waiting below, in the river, emphatically told me, “NO!”, that would not end well.  I thought about it and considered it, and agreed with him.  We were so high that I was not sure if she would be able to hang on to my neck, or that I would be able to hold the rope with my slippery hands, while she was clinging like a spider monkey to my neck.

There was also the consideration that she would lose her grip and drop as soon as we made the jump.  The thought of me, basically dropping my daughter into the very shallow embankment below scared the holy hell out of me.

My daughter was adamant jumping from this rope swing and I eventually conceded to allow her to jump, but I was going to do it first, so I would know first-hand, into what she would be jumping.

The countdown from ten started in my head.  I was scared.  This damn swing was REALLY HIGH. I am usually never afraid to do things of this nature, but I had a bad feeling in my stomach at that moment.

I think I just pushed myself off before I even got to “3”.

I swung through the air, my hands gripping that rope like if I let go, I was plunging into Niagra Falls. When I reached the apex of the swing, I looked down and I wanted to let go, but…OH MY GOD, THE WATER WAS SO FAR DOWN….I balked.

The rope started coming back down to make it’s return and I knew I would look like an idiot if I didn’t let go, so I let go.

I remember looking down at the water while also seeing, in my peripheral vision, my hands coming apart, releasing the tight grip I had on the rope swing.

I could be crazy, and many say that I am, but I know when I looked down I saw those waters part like I was running from Pharaoh’s army, leading the Nation of Israel behind me, wondering how we was gonna get through the Red Sea before Pharaoh’s army caught us and slaughtered us.

“SPLASH”

I my feet entered the water with my body following.

We didn’t make it far.

I felt the slimy mud shoot between my toes at the same time the realization that my ankle just collapsed and then the white-noise pain…..

I literally landed in about 4 feet of water.

I crushed my ankle.

I remember being under the water and feeling like all I wanted was to inhale two lungs-full of nothing but water so that I would not have to return to the surface.

I used my right ankle to pull myself up and straighten my crumpled body.

When I came out of the water, everyone was looking at me.

That is it….just looking at me.

I had no mirror there, and I am not sure what expression my face was making, but I know it was one which conveyed some sort of near-death excruciating pain.  My kids saw it…so did my former husband.

It took him a second but he came and got me out of the water.  I felt like I was going to pass the fuck out, it hurt so bad.

When he carried me like a baby out of the water, my feelings of shame and weirdness at being in such a vulnerable position with him, almost topped the pain that was radiating from my entire leg.

By the time my former husband laid me on the river bank my ankle was swollen.  I was not crying, but I know I was whining like a bitch.  I hated doing it, but seriously, this was, to date, my worst injury ever, hands-down.

He asked me if I was going to be ‘ok’, and I said, “yes…of course”.

Some of the family members came to me to inquire how they could help me. Being the sweet, southern wife that I was, I politely declined….why?  I surely didn’t want to mess up everyone’s good time!  That’s not polite, at all!

In about ten minutes time, my ankle and foot were equal in size to my calf muscle, and I have pretty large calf-muscles.  At that point, I asked my former husband to place me in a more comfortable spot than the side of the river bank.

He had to carry me, because now, my leg was completely unusable. Since he has pretty severe back injuries, himself, and it was difficult for him to carry me from the front, I hopped around and let him piggy back me to our truck which was parked about 50 yards from the picnic area.

Since it was apparent that none of the family were going to insist I go to the emergency room, I let my former husband place me into the passenger seat of his truck and I watched as he returned to the family reunion, as if I had not just broken my leg.

I plugged my phone into the aux plug of my former husband’s truck and tried to listen to some music and take my mind off of my throbbing leg. This was a pretty hard task because I had to sit at a weird angle to keep my foot elevated, which was become more and more swollen with each passing minute.

Right about the time my skin started turning a very dark purple, my ankle not even in the “cankle” category anymore, now just resembling something from the leg of a mutant, my former husband’s cousin, Dusty walked over and asked me how I was feeling.

I wish I would have been able to come up with something less polite and sincerely sweet than what I said, which went something like, “Well…it’s hurting pretty bad, but Ima be ok!”.

Dusty and I spoke for a couple of minutes before I asked him if he would mind helping me get the truck bed.  I thought that if I could sit somewhere which afforded me the ability to stretchm leg out, comfortably, that it would lessen the pain.

Dusty agreed and I felt so bad as he used every ounce of man-strength he had to escort me to my desired destination.  I could no longer to bear any weight, whatsoever, on my left leg, and my right leg and ankle were beginning to throb now.  My right leg and ankle were probably damaged, as well.  I know this because three years later, I feel it.  But at the time,  my left leg injury usurped any and every pain I may have been feeling on any other part of my body.

The truck bed did not help me feel any better.  It really didn’t matter how I situated my leg, it was horrible.  I looked at my left ankle, in absolute amazement.  It looked like an ostrich had somehow climbed into my body an laid an egg right in my ankle.

It really was amazing.

Even though I had given birth to 5 healthy, full-term babies,  I never imagined something so small and dainty as a woman’s ankle, especially mine, could be so huge and abnormal.  The egg in my ankle was bigger than any of my children before 32 weeks, in utero.

My ankle was knocked up.

Dusty stayed and talked to me for thirty minutes to an hour.

Bless his heart, I knew his family rarely had anything nice to say about him, but I didn’t realize what a black sheep he was until he stood there that fourth f July day, talking to me, being sweet, keeping me company while my leg increasingly became a personified prop from a cheesy 80’s horry flick.

The party wrapped up and the women-folk started cleaning up the plastic dishes and utensils about two and half hours after they cast their spell to make the waters part.

I was not taken to see a doctor until two days later.

The attending physician, who appeared to be in his early 60’s, stated, “This is the worst sprain I have ever seen in all of my years practicing”.

Although, NOT A BONE WAS BROKEN, every tendon and ligament from my knee down stretched then snapped, like rubber bands.

I was in a wheelchair for almost six weeks.

The tendons are still in a pile at my ankle.

Most days my ankle hurts and I just ignore it.

On the days right before a rain, it REALLY HURTS…and it makes me feel old, all predicting the weather and shit.

But…

I CAN STILL MOONWALK, BIOTCHES!!!