Six Word Saturday…

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“ Love:  ‘til death do us part…”

Addictive…

Tattoos. 

They are most definitely addicting. 

A month ago, after passing my final test of nursing school, I had my seventh tattoo done.  A tattoo that was fourteen years in the making.  A tattoo that represented the end of my journey into becoming a part of the medical profession. 

Yesterday, I got my eighth piece done. 

Three little birds.  “Bird” was my nickname growing up, in fact, much of my family still calls me “Bird” even now.  However, I plan to get another much more colorful bird tattoo in honor of my childhood nickname. 

This piece is more for another reason.  Bob Marley’s song, “Three Little Birds” was played at my graduation from nursing school after the newest crop of soon to be nurses walked across the stage, and I just love it.   The song’s message?  Always apropos, “Every little thing….is gonna be alright.” 

Such a good message, and for a tattoo lover, no better reminder than inked right on my shoulder.  In life, no matter what, no matter who, no matter how…♫…don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing…is gonna be alright…♫

So, yeah…they are totally addictive, and I’m hooked.  Now if  only my family would get on board with it.  When I came home with my last one, The One Who Gets Away With Murder looked at the large reddened , freshly tatted spot on my back and with sincerity, said, “Mom…you have your nose pierced and tattoos everywhere.  I don't want you to be one of those with tattoos all over her arms and stuff.” 

I looked down at that sweet eight year old face and where the shame should’ve been, sarcasm erupted and I replied, “Awww…I’m sorry sweetheart, you don’t get to pick your parents!” 

To blog or not to blog…

I struggle with whether or not I should blog about my mom.  As I said in an earlier post, we’ve been estranged for around 10 months. 

Is that enough said? 

Do I owe it to her to keep my mouth shut, publicly, about what being her daughter has been like? 

Do I owe it to myself to purge what being her daughter has been like?  Purge this shit out of my head, out of my heart, and hopefully rid this heavy weight I carry on my shoulders in regard to my mother. 

I have so many mixed feelings. 

She did the best she could, or knew how to do…as all of us mothers do…however, her faults, many times, were at my expense.  Not on me physically, no.  My mother did not give me physical scars.  She gave me emotional ones.  Psychological ones.  One is not worse than the other, but, these psychological/emotional scars have formed smoothed, raised callouses in my psyche, that have sometimes impeded the way of me becoming…well, me. 

Or did they cause me to become me? 

That’s what Jake says.  He says I should be grateful that she made me who I am.  I do love me some me, but…surely there was a kinder way to nurture me, for me to still be me.  No?  I don’t know. 

I just know that I have a lot to talk about in regard to my mother, and I can’t talk to her about it.  She won’t listen to me.  She says this is all my fault that I’m too sensitive. 

Um…do you guys know me?  Is sensitive a word you’d use to describe me? 

Yeah…me either. 

What is your opinion on the matter? 

To blog, respectfully, about my mother…or not to blog…that is the question!

Doing it wrong…

I MUST be doing this motherhood thing all wrong. 

Why? 

Because THIS is my 8 year old’s favorite song…

WTF?!?

I love me some white rappers, but dayum, dude! 

How Nikki Got Her Groove Back…

Blog style. 

Good news:  I’m vowing to blog again.  And yes, at this point in my absenteeism, I realize I’m likely talking to myself.  That’s kind of the point anyway. 

Which leads me to the…

Bad news:  The next several posts will be devoid of funny.

You see, over the past two years, I’ve spiraled back into the chasm of depression.  How I made it through nursing school during this psychological shit storm, I have no idea.  I just know that now that the dust has settled (yes, this bitch has graduated and there is only one test in my way of the letters R and N behind my name), I look around and hardly recognize myself. 

I take that back. 

I do recognize myself.  And I don’t love who I see.  I am the me of seven years ago, the first time I found myself in this now familiar chasm.  It fucking sucks.  I look the same…about twenty pounds (I’m lying…actually more) overweight, full of self loathing, arguing with my husband because I’m so fucking unhappy with myself.  My mind reeling from being pulled and stretched farther than I imagined possible during school, now ten months estranged from my mother (for very good reasons…this is actually a plus, yet it still hurts like hell), with the same seven year ago sadness in my eyes and downturn of my lips. 

Are YOU now in the chasm with me…did I depress the shit out of you? 

No?  Good. 

I did have to succeed and start taking the happy pills again.  In fact, I’m on two.  A “happy pill,” and because that wasn’t enough, a “happier pill.”  They’ve begun to help, but, I still have some bullshit in my brain that I need to wade through. 

This is where you come in, r/t (that’s nursey nurse for ‘related to’") this little ole blog and the back gettingness of this groove of mine…

I do plan to use the next several posts as a sort of therapy, and get some of this shit out of my head and into my blog.  I plan to document this go ‘round of “the crazy” so that when I’m faced with future episodes of “the crazy,” this blog will be sort of a beacon in the darkness of this chasm that I sometimes find myself in. 

So, hang with me, or not, just know that one day soon, I will have my groove back and by God, there will be funny again!! 

I missed this place.  I love you.  “Kiss the babies for me.”

Nikki

Shit narcissistic mothers say...

When you're telling them about something good that just happened in your life...

"Yeah, well, the thing is...I've decided that when bad things happen to people, it's because the devil is attacking them.  But, when good things happen to people over and over, it's because the devil already has a hold of them, and there is no use for him to try to attack them any longer.  He already has them in his grip."

Don't ask me how I know this...

Whew, it feels better to get that off my chest!

Don’t tell my husband I blogged this…

I’m sick.  After about a month of trying everything that my nursing textbooks taught me on how to rid fluid from one’s ears, I gave in and went to the doc, yesterday. 

I have a double ear infection. 

And apparently, I’m a two year old. 

Steroid shot and antibiotic shot in the ass yesterday didn’t yield an overwhelming result, and I started a round of antibiotics today, still feeling crummy, grouchy, running fever, can’t hear worth a damn, ear hurts like hell, stressed to the max about this semester, a million things to do, and not one iota of energy or gumption to do even one of them. 

So, what is a grown ass woman who feels like shit and is alone in her home to do?

She texts her husband and whines to him. 

*It’s confirmed…I’m two years old!!*

Me:  Don’t feel better, my love.  Still running fever.  Even with Tylenol all day.  I need you to nurse me back to health. 

*I even added one of those little sad face crying emoticons for effect…like this one *

And the compassionate, caring, empathetic, Nightingale-ish husband of mine, texted me back:

Him:  I’m on my way home now, stopping by to get dinner.  Don’t worry about that.  Get in bed, I’ll be there soon.  Would you like a shake?  Or, some ice cream?  Anything from the pharmacy?  I love you more than life itself and it almost makes me ill to know that you’re not feeling well.  I’ll give you a massage after I do the kids’ homework with them, and run you a bath.  See you in 30 minutes.  My nursing techniques are invasive as hell! 

Men…they think that “thing” of theirs is the answer to everything! 

And, yeah…please don’t tell my husband I blogged this!