Recent Developments

I haven't posted in a while. Not sure why. Things have been normal. Good and bad. Gumball started napping her own, and I started getting less sleep bc I apparently can't nap without a baby attached to my bosom. She's growing up, and I am happy to get a little time away from her during the day. It makes my time with her a little more fun, I think. Even though I am a little more tired.

I had one kind of frustrating day. I finally found a therapist up here, and made an appointment to see her. God knows I do need help. I'm ok, but not thriving. And I want to be ready and poised to take antidepressants as soon as baby is done breastfeeding. I am going to try to stick out 6 more months. But talking helps too, as does 2 hours to myself in the middle of the day. So therapy. I had an appointment scheduled. My second with this particular psychiatric nurse practitioner. And as I was feeding Gumball lunch, the fire alarm started going off. Not full force, but an annoying cheep cheep cheep every minute or so. So I changed the battery, reset it, and waited. It kept cheeping. I called my mom, my friend E, and my neighbor. No help whatsoever. I called property management, and they sent a repair person. I was very anxious, and called the therapist to let her know I might be late, or might not come at all- BUT that I was going to try my best to make it. When Gumball's nanny came, I hauled ass, and made it to therapy with seconds to spare. Not enough time to go to the bathroom, which I hadn't done all day in my panicked state, but at least I didn't have to run to the building. And the therapist had left. I called, and expressed my frustration. But now I don't want to return to her. And the other NPs in the area are all not accepting new clients. I called my PCP for a referral, and we'll see how that goes. Honestly, I think time is the only thing that is going to make me feel better.

I hate that I tend to write when I am feeling low. It paints an unrealistic picture of how I am feeling. I have happy moments. Happy days even. I feel highs and laugh sometimes. Not a lot. Honestly, I have forced every laugh in the past year. Gumball doesn't laugh much either, which is probably my fault. I don't feel like laughing. Especially not today.

Gumball's dad became a father again, to twin daughters, yesterday.

I knew his she-who-shall-not-be-named was pregnant. I knew she was pregnant with twins. I did not expect him to use the name he wanted to give Gumball on his new daughter. I did not expect to see photos of their happy family posted all across my facebook page, from Gumball's great aunt and grandmother. I didn't expect to feel anything.

I felt horrible. So, for the first time in a year, I contacted R. I have joked, maybe even here, that I haven't responded to his texts bc I only text friends (I like to add that email is reserved for my enemies.) I couldn't help myself. I wrote him all the bitterness and hate in my heart. I am embarrassed to write what I said. It was offensive and awful. I am not a mean person. It made my stomach twist to write it. I reminded him of what his life will now hold: no chance to finish college, long, boring trucking jobs, and a partner who doesn't just have another man's name tattooed on her back, she has "property of XXX." I reminded him of these things and threw in some choice names. I called him a worthless, lazy, dimwit. He responded. Twice. Once yesterday. He said "magnanimous." It was one of the first compliments he gave me. I knew the hidden message. He misses me, he misses us. Then today he said, "Everything you said is absolutely correct. I'm definitely not good enough for you, but I want you to know that I love you and I miss you a lot."

One day after his twin girls were born.

Dirtbag.

Of course it didn't give me any pleasure. Well, no, it did give me some pleasure. Like biting a canker sore or peeling a sunburn.

God it is true. I miss him every single day. The only way I am able to move forward is to tell myself that he is dead. If it wasn't for Gumball, I would have begged him to come back. I truly believe this POS (piece of shit) is my soulmate. We had some wonderful times together. He challenged me and taught me so much, and our life together could have been wonderful. I really grieve for me, and this loss. The thing that makes it worse is that my choices will someday impact my sweet girl. For her sake, I will never, ever take him back. I pity his children, all five of them. I tried to save his boys, and Gumball will hopefully never know a father who could abandon her and never once ask about her.

That keeps me strong too. I will not take him back bc he never asked about our daughter, never once.

Advice

I took my troubles and sorrows to Facebook, and was comforted by the kind words of friends. Among other gems were the following:
- with a mom like you who needs a dad, you have two mother's days now, and
- Pretty Girl has so much going for her, people will be waiting in line to be her friend. Rejection will not be a word in her vocabulary!

Their kind words lifted my spirits quite a bit. And someone who I used to be close with during the summer of 1994 sent me a beautiful letter. He explained how his mom hadn't been there for him much during his life. His parents were divorced, and he said that his father never badmouthed his mom at all. When he was older, high school or college age, his father told him the following, "Your mother is very limited- she has trouble taking care of herself - she couldn't possibly take care of you too - she's just wasn't and isn't ABLE. She is not WELL." He wasn't talking about an illness or anything diagnosed. Just her personality. My friend went on to say that he did wish he had heard the following, "IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT. He's just UNABLE to be here because he has his own stuff to work out. You are wonderful and amazing - it's his loss and has nothing to do with who you are. Anyone who actually knew you would definitely want to spend time with you." 

It did me a world of good to hear this. To get some idea of what I can say to Gumball, when the time comes. I know there are many successful and happy adult children of single moms, who didn't know their dads. I just don't know any of them. What is the magic combination of words to spare her the pain of rejection, and from making the same (poor) choices I've made?  It makes me think of Tina Fey's "Prayer for my Daughter." This part: "May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty." I just don't want my baby to start off her tender life with such a tremendous disadvantage.

Here is Tina Fey's letter: 
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered,
May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half
And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.
Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes
And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. 
Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,
For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming
Magenta for one day –
And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever,
That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers
And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,
That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.
“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.
But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.

http://www.parents.com/blogs/goodyblog/2011/05/tina-feys-a-mothers-prayer-for-her-daughter/