Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

Oh, Dear God, it's Thursday Again.

Dear Diary,

Every damn week it comes up behind me and pokes me in the ribs. This week, I giggle.

I’m taking a very Helena Bonham Carter approach to my hair, now that I have the under-cut done. It’s there. curly, straight, frizzy, tame, whatever. There it is and it looks fine. The coolest thing is that I only need one tube of blue hair color now, instead of two or three. Now, who’s going to scoot over to my wishlist (listed on the “support” page) and get me some? You might get something cool in return if you let me know who you are. In fact, I know you will get something cool in return. I’m not in the habit of just asking people to give me stuff out of the goodness of their wallets, I want to give back. I’m cash-poor, but creativity-rich.

Yesterday was a bad coffee day, my first. I drank coffee all day. Less sugar and milk, and way fewer actual cups than usual because I was drinking so much water with it, but I drank coffee. I have a half a cup to finish and a fresh cup to start, because I did just make a fresh pot and I don’t get fresh coffee much anymore. Then I’m done for the day. Got to keep up the momentum of weight-go-buh-bye.

I came up with a “special” pendant design that pays tribute to Boo, my sweet baby, and Evie, my passed on sweet baby that I am convinced led me to Boo, after she (Evie) died. Yes, I do cling to a belief of an afterlife for pets. I believe they watch over you and guide you, like guardian angels meets familiars. I don’t think dead humans would have the time or desire to interfere in our lives, if they did exist, but our pets? They are there, they go over the Rainbow Bridge when they leave us and they watch over us and protect us. I have a whole flock of animals looking out for me, and I need each and every one. A horse, a pack of dingoes, countless cats, a few dogs, some rats, a special duck . . . they are my guardians.

I wonder if my love of the Noah myth has anything to do with the legends and mysteries of the animals on board the ark. I think it’s, no, I know it is my favorite Bible myth. Even more than the story of the shepherds following the star during Jesus’ birth. I had so much Noah’s Ark stuff when I was a kid. Most of the pictures I drew were of the ark, I never got to the animals, I always ran out of time working on the ship itself. This is a good thing, I can’t draw realistic animals. Never could. I lacked the skill before I got the shakes.

That’s why I like these things called “zentangles” so much. They are small, tiny. My hands don’t have time to shake while making the short lines. That’s why I incorporated them into my new jewelry line. Oops. Gave away a secret, there. Oh well, it’s been said. Yes, I am using zentangles in my new jewelry. This has caused the deaths of many fine line Sharpies. But, when done right, the results are amazing, and, I have been all over Pinterest and Google and have found Nothing that even comes close to what I am doing. No one has thought to put these things together yet. After I debut them in the PRH Shop and on Etsy, I anticipate many copycats doing a much better job of it than me. But that doesn’t matter. I came up with it and I am proud to have had an original idea after such deep immersion into the world of Pinterest and its barrage of brilliant ideas.

I got up at 3am, it’s a little hard to believe it is just after 7. Let’s see, I wrote, I dozed briefly, I rolled cigarettes, I listened to WAY too much Pearl Jam, which I didn’t think was possible. And I have decided that the first song I am going to learn to play on my guitar is “Daughter”. It’s in my register (I’m a solid Alto), so I can sing it while I play it. And maybe I can recapture the voice I once had and make it sound good. And maybe I will discover that I can actually sing and play guitar, and I will be so happy. You just don’t know.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother. My biological, shrew that raised me, mother, not any of the many other women I have glommed on to in order to find some love along the years, but the woman who was supposed to love me in the first place, and just couldn’t bring herself to.

I’m about the same age she was when I stepped completely out of her life. I stayed in touch with my dad, who an outsider would assume did me far more damage, but no. Dad is the one to talk to. Mom is crazier than I am, and, most dangerously, under the impression she is well-balanced and stable. So, I don’t really have any “older woman” frame of reference for anything from here on out. Up to this point, I was doing well learning from her mistakes and trying very hard not to make them myself. From now on, I’m on my own.

I’ve even been thinking about writing her a letter, but it wouldn’t do any good and it wouldn’t do any harm. It would just roll right off her scaled back and fall into the pool of black goo that follows her around, wasted words and emotions. I want her to know that trying to force a mentally ill child into normalcy isn’t right. Not allowing a teen to have a key to their own house isn’t right. Baby sitting a newborn at age 10 is not right. These things were wrong, and they were all her. She needs to know that her antipathy damaged all of us. But we have all, save Kraig, told her at some point or another, tried to explain . . . she doesn’t get it. She was the adult, so she was right. That’s it. If she didn’t love me, that was her decision to make as the adult, and the effects of it are not her problem. And she didn’t love me. Simple. No drama, no histrionics. Just that. Poor me, my mommy didn’t love me. Live with it. I could have handled it if she just didn’t like me very much, but there was no connection. There was never any of that unconditional love I hear so much about.

I couldn’t even comprehend unconditional love until many years into my relationship with Doc. Now I can comprehend it, but I haven’t achieved it. And I still can’t let myself attempt to feel it. He shows it to me constantly. If he hasn’t left yet, it is unconditional. And the whole concept of that happening between a parent and child is so alien to me. And every time she sends me some passive-aggressive FB message meant to make me feel something ugly, it just reminds me. How she doesn’t understand, and never will. She will go to her grave, convinced that she did right by us. We’re dead or hopelessly broken, all of us. That doesn’t happen to a stable family. That doesn’t happen because a child in the family has a mental illness that is known about and ignored. That happens because the parents fucked some serious shit up. And she thinks she did a good job, considering the hardships put on her. The hardships of adopting four more children when the one you have, you can’t be bothered to pay attention to or care about. Care for? Yes.

Let it be said, I always lived in a nice house. I always had clothes, no matter how ugly and out of fashion she dressed me. I always had food, except when they were “fasting” for the Church and I had to, too. I needed nothing except medical care, that I didn’t get. My physical needs were completely and well taken care of. My parents deserve credit for that, I know a lot of parents who can’t be bothered to even do that much. But our psychological and emotional needs were completely ignored. Distasteful that we would have emotions or psychology. Ugly things that weren’t to be dealt with. And that is why I hate them. I would rather have starved for food and been loved and nurtured. I would have gotten over the starving, and remembered the love. Now I just have rich meals to remember and being called “fat” by my obese mother all of my life.

For some reason, Eddie Vedder’s voice and words bring out all of my mommy issues and a lot of my daddy issues, which are completely different. It starts with “Daughter”, or “Black”. One to my parents, one to me and my sister, Kasey. After that, every damn song has something that resonates with the inner battle of the parenting.

So, now you know why I don’t have kids. If there was even a chance that I would turn out like my mom, which I did, I would just destroy their lives. That has led to one child up for adoption and gone, and two abortions, and a miscarriage. And I have always, when I’ve had my say in the act, practiced safe sex. And I’m not sorry. I regret the adoption thing. That whole thing was a mess that should have just been buried in the ground. I have gone to great lengths not to be anywhere near children. I have lost friendships over refusing to babysit, though what parent would want a heavily medicated person with schizophrenia caring for their child? Anything to not damage another generation.

And maybe you understand why I feel like an alien on Facebook. Everyone with their sisters and moms and dads and uncles and aunts sharing all of this love that is completely foreign to me. And I can’t join in. I don’t know my brothers and sister very well, I have one cousin I’ve never met who follows me on FB, but she never posts. Once, my step-aunt found me, but I didn’t engage in chit chat. I don’t know her, either, I don’t know if I can trust her. I don’t know any of my family. My mom started trying to cut me off when I was first diagnosed with a mental illness. It was all about isolating me from the rest of the family. Physically or emotionally, either way. So I don’t know any of these people. And when I get near one that I do know, like my Nana, they take her away from me. The subterfuge that my dad organized in the ICU when my Nana had her second stroke made it impossible for me to see her or even call her. I got to see her for two days, for about an hour, total, in 25 years. Then they hid her away from me. What do I do with that?

Heh, I used to sing in the car when I was a kid, and my mom would turn up the radio until it hurt my ears and I quit singing. Then she would leave the volume up so I didn’t start singing again. She never once said, “Can you please not sing along to the radio? It ruins the experience for me, or it distracts me.” She’d just turn the volume up until it hurt me ears and we got to our destination with Kenny Rogers blaring. Such a card, that woman. Expecting a 6 year old to read your mind or not think that you were hurting their ears intentionally. What a woman.

Or the way she and my dad used to make me sleep on the screened in porch in the dead of winter because my shift ended after they went to bed and I still wasn’t allowed to have a key. Ahhhhh . . .  memories. She just plain old deserves an award for being the most callous person to ever pretend so hard.


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