Madness takes it's toll

The tale of the death demon.

( TW suicide, drug use )

So what do you do for a living?

This is my favourite conversation to have with a stranger, only by "favourite conversation" I mean more like "would rather eat a tablespoon of fire ants with a chaser of stale beer and tequila left at the bottom of a conspicuous looking glass".

The honest answer is that I'm a bikini bartender at the most infamous strip club in the city. The one that's famous for encouraging all of it's waitresses and bartenders to strip.

That answer, however, doesn't get me the right reaction when I'm out with my 8 year old daughter and she's desperate for a play-date with some new friends and I get the joy of networking with new-friends mother.

It's also not helpful when meeting any of my partners work friends and acquaintances, my job, what I do, where we met. These are all the questions that make me cringe. Everyone immediately thinks "he married a ripper? That guy? She's half his age! She must be a hell of a gold digger! He runs in very influential circles, lots of government meetings, and he's living with her? They have a BABY?!"

For that reason we don't do a lot of socializing as a couple, we're the elephant in the room and both of us hate it. He claims he's not ashamed, I claim I'm confident in my choices, but those worlds just don't blend well. And so we avoid. But the longer we're a couple, the older the kids get, the harder the answer to that question "so what do you do for work?" seems to get.

So usually I'm left sleepless the night before some new social engagement where I know that question will come up. And I banter with myself trying to come up with the "right answer".

I'm a...

Mother..?

So you're at home full time with three kids?

Well, not exactly, I mean, 4 days a week...

So then what do you do for work?

I'm... A writer?

I'm doing this really cool thing on LiveJournal (that's like a blogging site kinda)...

So what does that kind of thing pay you?

Well, nothing, it's just for fun and bragging rights...

But you have a real job too right?

I'm in... Management? I mean they do leave me in charge, I work alone, have lots of responsibilities. I'm in charge of several people... kinda.

You're not in management, you have no real authority...

I'm a... psychiatrist... Sort of...?

It's not a total lie.

Yes it is

I mean, I listen to people, ill people, they tell me their problems and I prescribe a mind altering substance to ease their suffering, it's psychiatry in it's most primitive form isn't it?

You're not a psychiatrist, you're a bartender, you count beer and cut limes, you weigh liquor and mix drinks...

Yeah, yeah I'm a bartender... Been doing this for awhile now...

So where do you work?

Um...

But what it always comes back to, is that is my job, it's what I do, and I'm good at it. And in the moment I'm not ashamed as me, it's gotten me out of the slums, out of debt, away from an abusive marriage and into a happy life, the money I make is enough to be able to work and have nice things.

I pay my sitter $4 more and hour than I make, which I wouldn't be able to do in a "real job" because I wouldn't have the tips, I wouldn't be able to afford to work at a "real job", I could not work, but we tried that and I was so miserable, I felt worthless, not working doesn't work for me, and if I did have the real job it would full time not part time. This way I get the best of everything, a dual life, where I get to be myself, have a reason to shower a few times a week, a break to do something other than wipe bums and break up fights, and still not miss out on too much of their childhood, still attend some field trips, bake cupcakes, teach the baby to walk and talk.

But I still haven't found a nice way to say, I'm a bikini bartender in a strip club.

This is my entry for Week 2 of LJ Idol exhibit B, topic was "Um...".

Thanks for reading!

This week we worked in teams, I'm paired with notodette's entry.

( Trigger warning for domestic violence, this is fiction writing for LJIdol )

When Ari was two and Ada was 5 months, we walked out on Scott who wasn't home anyway, and two weeks later it was mothers day, as my sticky two year old pounced on me at a quarter to 6 in the morning she squeeled "Happy Smothers Day mommy!" and that is what I always think of as my "first" mothers day, yes she was 2, so technically I'd had other mothers days, but that was the one where all the hopelessness and hopefulness of being on my own at 22 with 2 kids really hit me and I honestly felt like a mom.

Yesterday we went out for breakfast and several of the servers and restaurant people wished me a happy mothers day as my sticky, one year old shoved pancakes into my bra while nursing and my older two children bickered about whether or not I was being fair when I insisted they get juice instead of soda with their food and I thought to myself "how the heck do all of these people know I'm a mom?"

It's funny, to me, that I rarely think of myself as a mother, I am a woman with three children, I've given birth (the traditional way) 3 times, I've always raised my own kids, and more often than not I've done it all alone, but somehow I don't wake up in the morning and think "yeah I'm a MOM!".

Today is baby Grace's first birthday, a year ago this morning I booted her out and told her to get a hair cut and a real job, oh no wait, that's still to come. As she is the last of the babies I will have I feel like this marking of her first year is somehow extra important, and it falling on mothers day is an added bonus.

Of all the things both wonderful and ridiculous that I've done with my time on this earth having children has been the most challenging, rewarding and downright amazing process I can even begin to describe, and I am so grateful for every frustrating, heart breaking, tear jerking, hug-filled, sticky moment.

What natural remedies do you swear by?

Brought to you by the entire clove of raw garlic I just swallowed trying to rid myself of this mega-cold thing that the baby has gifted me with on my busiest week all year.

I'm watching, she spins, she slides and I wait, involuntarily flexing the muscles along with her. Eternally frustrated, like this beast bursting forth from my fingers, it wont be enough, it wont be good enough, the nagging echoes in my mind, it wont be good enough.

Like these moments where I war with myself over the 'one more glass of wine' I'm a mother, I'm breastfeeding, I shouldn't, I can't. Like these moments, I watch you sighing in your sleep as I pontificate my latest ridiculousness and you try, oh lord you try, to stay awake but it's been a long day, and it's catching up to you, I must not be entertaining enough, not thrilling enough. I try, try and put these words, these images from their foggy place in my mind into a jumbled piled of jargon streaming madly frustrated and furious from my finger tips. I've been staring at this screen off an on now for a weeks time, begging for this topic I put on myself to inspire The Greatest, instead of my latest hack, my latest failure, trapped under a pile of word soup.

Maybe that's a lie maybe it's all a lie found at the bottom of this bottomless bottle this life has become. It was so easy to not be so wound up over nothing when I was broke and struggling and I couldn't afford to just have whatever I want. I mean obviously I don't have everything, but I feel like I do, I feel like the contrast of this Hollywood-esque rags to riches story that my life has become, where I've gone from nothing to wanting for nothing, is so indulgent, so full of whimsy and freedom. I don't deserve it, I'm quick to point out, it's your house, your world, we're renting space in (and you're just as quick to remind me, that it's our house, our world, but how am I supposed to reconcile that with the bank of the universe? How I am suppose to allow for that kind of freedom and generosity from a life I'd only expected suffering and hardship from?) and it never stops, the spinning of the gerbil in my mind-cage, the spinning of the girl on the pole who's body I envy... But it's not the body, not its slender hips or it's tight middle, it's perky barely-there breasts, the gentle curve of the spine, no it's not the body that I envy it's that the body that spins, is hers. There is no dragon waiting for her in the shadows, the chronic shoulds (I should quit, do something respectable, I should definitely not have one more glass of wine, I should just do something with my life already...) don't reach her, because she is accountable solely to herself.

I used to wake up in the mornings and slay the dragon, you might know the dragon, he's not as mean or menacing as he used to be, though he's brought some side kicks with him lately, but the dragon himself looms eerily over the bed. In years passed he held me down by my throat each morning, I couldn't sleep on my back because he'd suffocate me with his smoke, and torment me with his flames. Every morning was a battle to get out of bed, and some days it wasn't a battle I wanted to pick, some days I just let him triumph and didn't get up at all. Now he's little more than a shadow that just hovers, I don't war with him to get out of bed every morning like I used to, now he just is, hovering like a cloud, peeking almost child-like out from behind a dresser. He's a black and white shadow now, the color seeped out of him somewhere in my early twenties with a combination of Celexa and Valium, the mighty swords that ground him into submission, they called him 'A Major Depressive Episode', I didn't think that name suited a dragon, so I named him George. Over the years we've become tolerant of each other, not friends exactly, I think if you make friends with your mental illnesses you've probably given them a bit too much power, and I like George in his black and white frame, less defined, though I must admit I'd probably miss him a little if he completely disappeared.

I have these adorable reasons for being, three of them now that outline and define my being, though the more human they get, the less tiny and primal, the less they become reasons for being and more they become reasons for staying. See the funny thing about my dragon, and about my life, is that long ago he(the dragon) convinced me my presence here was temporary that I wasn't needed or particularly wanted, and in many ways, I knew he was right. And then along came the first of three little babies, and my whole world erupted into bright blossoming colors, suddenly there was a reason to get out of bed, to fight with myself for 'better' and a funny thing happened, everything came in second place.

Dragons don't particularly like to come in second. They don't want the silver medal, they want the gold, and so mine brought in some friends, some repetitive nagging friends. And they tell me, all the things I shouldn't do, I definitely shouldn't have had that one more glass of wine, I definitely shouldn't still be dancing, shouldn't be enjoying, shouldn't be so self indulgent. I shouldn't be ignoring my real world in favor of writing, of reading, of bathing, of working. The guilt over working and leaving the baby, the guilt over not working and "mooching", the guilt over drinking or not drinking and being antisocial, not fitting in, over eating too much or not enough or fitting into my size 1's or not fitting into them, of attending every school play and choir recital for my eldest, of not having enough time for the middle child, of giving away too much or not enough all at once.

They aren't dragons, no, they don't hover menacing at the edge of the bed, heavy on my chest binding me to do the bed. These anxious racing friends of the dragon that hold me back in their own terrifying ways, aren't a named beast I can slay, they're shapeless forms, nagging, guilt-ridden panic-stricken moments, and I've yet to figure out how to name them and keep them in line, the way I have with George.


This is my entry for LJ Idol Exhibit A week 8 topic; Invisible Chains

Guys I haven't slept in like 3 days, yesterday I did 4 times my average sales at work on 2.5 hours of sleep with the beginning of a migraine (that's blown out to full fucking omg migraine) and last night Gracie was up 5 times in 6 hours and Ada was up with a nightmare. I just. Ugh.

WHINE WHINE WHINE COMPLAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNNNNN!


Ok.

Breathe.

I have so much to do today.

And the teething baby, she is GRUMPY.

Because this came out of my brain elsewhere on the internet, I need to know. If you leave a comment on a journal is it ever "too late" to get a response? Do you expect someone to respond? Are you annoyed if they don't? Is it shitty LJ ettiquate that I suck at replying to comments?

Honest answers please?

Oh hell just text-message me the comments LJ I'd have a way easier time responding to those :P

Can we say stupidest thing ive ever done?yes we can!

I'm not getting naked at work today.

It's like that thought, that decision on my part makes me twice as desirable. If I walk in the door open minded, with the plan to get drunk and naked I'll probably end up with a slight buzz and a hand full of five dollar bills, but the minute I decide I'm not dancing, and I'm not drinking whether or not I say anything to anyone, it's as if some prankster force takes over turning the fives into twenties and the all the water in the bar turns to vodka.

It was on one of those days that I found myself sitting watching the sunset on the patio with a 4 tequila buzz eyes rolling back into my skull. The DJ came out "Ani can you do another show, the 9 o'clock girl's a no-show."

There was a point I think I could have danced in 8inch heals in my sleep. It was like every muscle knew exactly where and when it was needed, strut down the stairs, and walk past the first pole hear the tune of the music, and as she sings "the worlds a better place when it's upside down" grab lift pull one fluid movement the boots leave the floor the back of the right leg just under the knee but above the cut of the boots grabs and hang and spin, effortless. Bring the left leg around, arms extended off the pole now and switch the grip to the left leg, hang there extending the other leg out, back down. They have names for these moves, though in that moment I'm blanking on them, I think that one is called Scorpio to Gemini. Gripping the pole with both legs again sit up, grab the pole with your arms and climb, higher until I'm hitting the rafters, the stage lights burning my knuckles, hang there a minute, just by the finger tips, the heat, the dizziness from the booze and the lights washing over every inch, there might be a crowd and they might be applauding, or they might be cat calling but it's just another noise, another moment in a series of moments that repeats near daily. Grab the pole again, behind the knee again, the skin is worn and calloused there, bruised from my five day a week routine. I could have done it in my sleep, and there were days I did these tricks so drunk I don’t remember having been there at all. That swilling headspin sober or not of that first grab on the cold chrome that first hoist of feet above head, the rhythmic pulse of the bass through the speakers, is invigorating and addictive like little else I’ve found.

That night I made good money and it was still early. I went back out to the patio, sipped a vodka drink and watched the lightening, texting with a friend. It wasn't storming, it was that strange lightening we get on the prairies, where the sky glitters like someones sequined dress in candle light, it's that noncommittal flicker that makes you wonder if it isn't all just in your head. That summer lasted forever and nothing fully seemed real, between the booze and the money and tiny little fan club I was developing everything had a hint of the unbelievable to it, and the lightning that night was no exception, "why don't we take a drive and look at it out of town?" he wrote back, and twenty minutes later we were 5 miles out of town, the sun had set but the air still dripped with that pre-storm splendor, a thick aching sweat of the last drops of summer.

We sat in his beat up old Pontiac listening to Massive Attack, pulsing along with each ark through the sky, we knew the rain was coming, taunting us with its unresolved tensions, our hands not touching, that moment seemed to expand and contract for hours, but it couldn‘t have been more than minutes before the fork lightening shattered the sky and the rain came down in sheets blanketing the wheat fields that make up the Manitoba prairie.

These moments, these instances that seem to last for hours, for days, like the first time looking into a lovers eyes, the moment of orgasm that’s all at once eternal and lost, these feelings of wonder and bliss are what keep me coming back. They’re what drags me back into the bar, they’re why I haven’t left the prairies, they’re what draws me to the river hearing it crack in the spring. The timeless, endless instances of looking up at Orion in the south west sky every year from January to March, when the light from those stars seems to shine for me. These are my grounding forces, my bliss, these are the moments that hold me, that lift me up from every stumble, every crash and burn. I keep the faith, through those moments of depth that bring me higher than any drug I’ve found coursing through my brain like that adrenalin rush of a crown cheering as I hang by my ankles from the rafters, that moment when the lightning breaks the sky. Every moment of passion that courses through tired limbs and aching bones, these are the moments that stay.

This is my entry for week 4 LJ Idol Exhibit A; Ultra Deep Field