Thursday, October 9, 2014

Yesterday was Fight Club and I don't want to talk about it

  Yesterday was monumentally bad. In fact, the Travel Channel is starting a new show hosted by Don Wildman called Monumental Shitty and the first episode is devoted to this day. (Viggo would appreciate that joke)
  Somehow I realized that there were messages sent to me on Facebook that I've never seen before. Lots of people I didn't know and one I wished I've never met-my ex's wife. She seems to think I made a fake profile for her. She then proceeded to say my kid was messed up in the head for being my kid, that I'm old and so on. If she ever mentions my kid again, she has a whole list of people ready to give her a piece of their mind. I'm top of that list. My friends made some very good points about the message. One friend said that insulting a child is very sick and that she could be charged with telecommunications harassment if she persists. Plus, "She looks like a horse and he got chubby. I crept." God bless, Kate. You are my hero.
  Several other friends stated that she seems pretty psycho to still be creeping on me. It's weird, very Single White Female of her, I agree. Constantly looking at my LinkedIn profile which has never changed since I started it is VERY weird. She's unhinged. Oddly, I had wished them happiness. Now, I'm pretty sure no one should get stuck with that kind of crazy. It would be like the Michael Douglas character marrying Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Another friend said she probably made the fake profile herself just to accuse me of making it. I agree. The whole thing has a Gone Girl tinge to it. If she keeps it up, I will see what I can do about a restraining order or whatnot. Never mess with my child.
  After all that nonsense, I get a text from my mom. Two psychos in one day is way too much. She's finally learned to text. At least they aren't drunken phone calls. Since I'm not speaking to her anymore, I agreed to give her my address so she could send Viggo letters. I'm not going to keep him away from her like she did with me and my Dad's parents. I get this infuriating text - "A fake address. Really?" She claimed a letter was returned saying it wasn't a real address. Yes, the "not a real address" stamp that is so popular at the post office. Anyway, after I texted back that it is indeed a real address, I don't know what to tell you, she said she's sick of playing games. Dear sweet baby Jesus in the manger help me keep my sanity. I realized I had told her the wrong zip code, which seemed to somehow connect in the ball of crazy that is her head and she shut up.
  If you've met me for five minutes, you know I'm not a fan of drama, games or anything similar. I like things easy like a Sunday morning, man. Have you ever noticed that people who say they're sick of playing games are the ones who love them? I want to breeze through my day on an even keel. This probably stems from my childhood which was saturated with drama due to my mother. When I would stay with her on the weekends, it was 24/7 fighting with her boyfriends. I hated it more than anything. I would cower in another room, covering my ears from the shouting. It's why I'm so passive as an adult- I swore I would never be that way. My marriage had a total of maybe three big fights. So, if anyone thinks I'm sitting here like Shonda Rhimes, working on some drama, you're surely mistaken. It's more like a Buddhist trying to usher a spider out the door instead of killing it.
  At the end of the night, I sat in the bathtub. listening to the Walkmen, sobbing. Is it a ying yang thing? If you lead a normal life, must weirdness attack you to even out the universe?  Fuck this universe. Seriously. Any world that would take a great guy like Bob out of it is horrendous. This is what rules it, the crazies and the maniacs. It doesn't matter what good is out there, it gets stomped out by some monster going out her way to say shit about a kid. That's the world. These people run it.
  I feel like Wyle E. Coyote after an ACME anvil smashes him into the desert sand. Fucking defeated. After Bob died, I feel like I'm walking on an ice lake, ready to fall through. His death has haunted me. I'm carrying so much weight. And it breaks, breaks, breaks thinking of the pain his family feels. I never dealt with my own pain. I can't. I have to do this, you know. I have this boy to care for. A leaf could blow me over and I'm plunging into the darkness. I want to be left alone. I want the crazies out of my life. I'm becoming someone I don't want to be.
  I don't know how to fix anything, so I maintain. It's all I can do. We Can't Be Beat by the Walkmen plays in my heart-hopeful lyrics followed by a sad melody. This shit has to be dirt off my shoulder because my priority is making my kid's life as normal and good as can be. Bury this shit with any other pain or anger that dwells inside of me into a deep, dark pit. Fucking bury it.