by Band Back Together | Aug 12, 2015 | Bringing the Happy Back World Tour, Happiness |
Back again!
I want to update you all on what has been going on in my life lately. Some of you may remember me going through a dark time when I last posted, I am happy to say I am doing much, much better! I am happy and content and don’t really have much to report. Which is good!
My son is growing so much! He is getting so big and talking so much and he makes me proud to be his momma everyday.
My husband has gotten a lot better with our son as well. No more spanking! We are working on the amount he yells, but that has yet to be accomplished. Baby steps, that is my mantra!
I went through a rough patch about a month ago where I had a repressed memory, perhaps I will post about it later, it was bad! But I got through it, like I always do. It still doesn’t sit well with me but I am working to come to terms with it.
I am sorry I haven’t been around much to comment on everyone’s posts. I am a full-time stay-at-home-mom, full-time wife, and part-time student, so I have a full plate! But I have a month off from school coming up so I plan to get back into the swing of things and get my groove back.
I love you all so much, and just keep swimming, no matter how powerless or defenseless you feel right now, I promise you it gets better. Just hold on a little bit longer and reach out to us! You. Are. Not. Alone.
by Band Back Together | Aug 11, 2015 | Happiness, Narcissistic Personality Disorder |
I’m a 37 year old, a newly single mother of three children between the ages of three and seven. While I do not receive child support, we are finally happy. My ex, their father, has narcissistic personality disorder (NPD).
As I am a single parent, I’ve had to rely upon my parents. My children and I decided to move from the city we love to the country where I grew up. We thought it to be the right decision. Of course, I found my dream house out in the country but, thanks to my bad credit, I couldn’t afford to buy it. My father stepped in to help. He signed for my house and he signed for a car for me.
My parents own the business I work for – I’m even allowed to bring my kids to work – it’s pretty awesome. Until it started. Every time I make a decision or do something they don’t like, my parents ride me. My house isn’t clean enough. I’m not home on time. That’s enough to trigger a texting marathon with a million questions from them. Our personal life is now their business.
If I have anyone over to see me or if one of my children says something to that effect, it triggers a million questions. If I don’t feel like playing the game, they assume I’m hiding something bad. If they hear something or even THINK something, instead of coming to me, I get treated like crap – and I have no idea why.
In the past two years, I’ve been treated terribly by them, even though in a twist of fate, I’ve tried harder than I have in my adult years. Things have gotten so bad that my father will say terrible things to me – often things that are true, but from the past – in front of my children. He’ll even go behind my back and say nasty things about me to my children.
My parents have put me through a lot. As of late, I’ve come to the understanding that my father has these preconceived notions about the girl, and the woman he thought I should be, When I fail to live up to these expectations, he becomes irate.
Now I’ve finally woken up and realized that I do have a mind of my own and yes, I can even use it. Now it seems that my kids are being targeted so my parents can “help them be the best they can be” in their eyes, of course. I feel that they have had their chance raising my brother and I.
Now? Now it’s my turn to raise my kids. So we can be happy once again.
by Band Back Together | Aug 10, 2015 | Encephalocele, Happiness, Internet Trolls |
The first time I got a blog troll on my personal blog, I ate a celebratory cupcake and washed it down with a tall Diet Coke on the rocks. It was probably, in hindsight, a spammer (just like my first comments , which I think I framed somewhere were) but I didn’t care. I’d made it! Someone, somewhere hated me!
Then, I got someone who copied bits out of my blog posts. Actual bits of my posts removed and pasted onto hers, like it was no big deal. Someone else, a watchdog, alerted me. My daughter had just been born ill and I wasn’t about to deal with it right then. Talk about bigger fish to fry. I like to think I would have fist-pumped, though, and perhaps celebrated with a tasty bowl of edamame or a wee Uncrustables.
Later yet came the loon who created several blogs composed of entirely stolen posts filched neatly from other bloggers, myself included, who I did fight. Google claims they shut her down, but I don’t care to check because I don’t want to drive her traffic up. I still have, somewhere on my desktop, screenshots of all of your comments on her blog, just because they were so full of the awesome, by the way.
You don’t fuck with the Pranksters or The Band.
Since that first Internet Mole Person (troll), I’ve gotten a handful of others.
Generally, they make me laugh.
There are weeks when they do not.
Like anyone, I’m a person, and I have bad days, and bad weeks, and sometimes I say and do the wrong things. In fact, if I had to describe my blog, I’d say something like, “THIS is where I bow to the alter of my wrongness.” I don’t have a publicist or an adviser to tell me not to do something because, uh, why?
This week, I’ve gotten a couple of nasty-grams that hurt my feelers. I know bloggers are “supposed” to pretend like it doesn’t matter; like we don’t care, like it doesn’t hurt our feelers when people call us names or insult us, but it does. Of course it does.
Like it or not, this is my life.
Certainly, it’s my steaming pile of guts spilled here, my wrongness on display, and my inconsistencies on the table to be judged and if I don’t like it, I can absolutely pack up shop and go somewhere else. That’s the answer, right? To delete my blog in a stompy flourish? Go back to being Becky, In Real Life? That’s how to handle hurt feelers?
Not so much. At least, not for me.
Blogging, writing out your pain, and sharing it with the world, is an act of bravery. When you put yourself out there, especially waaay out there, you stand a very real chance to be very hurt or very disgusted by human nature. The farther you stick your neck out, the worse the inevitable hurt* may be.
ANYWAY.
What I think is worse than any troll are the people who get you entirely wrong. Because you’re left standing there stuttering, “but, but, BUT, that’s not what I meant AT ALL.”
These are the sort that make me sort of question myself in a way that I seldom do (perhaps I should): Did I say it wrong? WAS I wrong?
And most importantly: why the hell do I do this at all? I see that typed out here, on my screen and it looks like I’m being all 15-years old and dramatical feet-stamp *woe is me, OH NOES* and I’m (for once) not.
I mean that genuinely: why do I do this? Why do ANY of us bother?
It’s certainly not for the billions of dollars in my bank account that still haven’t been deposited, nor is it for the notoriety and free swag, or to be able to tell someone that “I blog, and it’s really, really cool.” Because I swear, if I told someone that, they’d be all, “um, huh? Did you just insult me?”
No. It’s not for that.
It’s because it all matters. Every word I write matters. To me. To (maybe) you. These words are what define me, what make up my life, and what bring me joy. Whether or not someone else finds them and finds joy in them too is inconsequential because it brings me joy. I write because I love to. I write because that is what I do. I write because it matters. Every comment I make, every life I touch, it matters.
That is why The Band exists.
It’s why we pay for servers to handle our traffic and keep your stories edited and fresh. It’s why we’re always looking for new volunteers. It’s why we use our social media accounts to share your stories. It’s why we cry with you, we laugh with you, and we dust you off, and get you to your feet to fight another day. It’s what we do. For you and for every life you touch by the words you write. Why our volunteers help keep the lights on and guide you to us. We all know the truth of what it is that we do here: it all matters.
Everything we, what you, do. We know, above all else, this to be true:
It all matters.
Everything you do. Every single thing.
It all matters.
*I’d like to tell you guys a secret. We do moderate comments because you never do know if/when an Internet Mole Person may scurry up to shit on things. It’s our way of protecting you and every other person who uses the site from the ugly bits. We moderate so that you can share your ugly bits without fear.
With the exception of a Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert The Band into their, uh, program? Church? Erms, I don’t know much about it. But with that exception, I have seen maybe 4 comments deleted and those were people trying to raise money or promote their own blog. You just don’t get any hate. Way to be awesome, The Band.
by Band Back Together | Jun 16, 2015 | Depression, Guilt, Happiness, Help With Relationships, Marriage and Partnership, Marriage Problems, Pregnancy, Romantic Relationships |
I have a good life.
I have a Bachelor’s Degree in elementary education and a good, stable job. I have amazing friends and family and a husband who loves me. I know all of this. Most days I am incredibly thankful for all of it. Most days. But then, the doubts start creeping in…
Am I where I wanted to be at this point in my life? No.
I was supposed to be happily married with a home and children of my own to raise. Isn’t that what the fairy tales promise?
Instead, I got married young to a man who has this incredible potential but refuses to get off his butt and do something with it. He’s had five jobs in four years, all of them at call centers. Each time he promises it will be better, but 4-6 months in he gets stressed out and apathetic and I’m back to pinching pennies to get by.
And kids? Pffft. Right. Even if, by some miracle, I was able to get pregnant, how am I supposed to raise a child when I married one? I know that I shouldn’t expect him to change who he is to meet my expectations as he is still the same person I married.
But I’m not.
And that, I guess, is the root of the problem. I am not the same person I was two years ago, much less the six we’ve been married or the nine that we’ve been together. But, even as I type this, I feel that I am being disloyal to him somehow. He loves me. He has never abused me, physically or otherwise. I feel guilty and well, to be perfectly honest, I feel like an ungrateful bitch.
I’ve never been on my own. Never had my own space. I’ve always had to answer to or been responsible for someone else. The funny thing is, I chose this. I chose to marry the man who I knew was irresponsible. But, faced with the option of marrying or being alone, I chose marriage.
I settled, I see that now, but not in the way you may be thinking. I don’t mean, “Oh my GAWD what was I THINKING?!?!? I’m so much better than him!” What I mean is, I settled into the idea of being married because I was terrified I would never find anyone else. I was never the pretty, popular girl, with her choice of dates. I was was the overweight, mousy, wallflower trying to blend into the background.
So, when someone actually did pay attention to me, I tended to latch on for dear life.
I settled, and now…now, I don’t know. I used the Almighty Google to try and find someone who knows where I am coming from, but in every post I found there was a paragraph about how the poster had found someone better than his/her significant other. That’s not the case with me. The choice isn’t between my marriage and someone new.
Ultimately, the choice is between my marriage and myself.
I don’t even know if any of this is making sense, or if I sound like a blathering idiot…
by Band Back Together | Mar 1, 2015 | Anger, Cancer and Neoplasia, Cancer Survivor, Caregiver, Coping With Cancer, Depression, Fear, Feelings, Guilt, Happiness, Romantic Relationships, Stress, Trauma |
Imagine being 21 and attending one of the most well-known public universities in the United States. You are studying something you love, having a blast with your girlfriends, and always on the lookout for a potential suitor. You’ve lost some weight and feel really great about yourself. You’re four months away from graduating (a semester early!) and starting your life.
Your future is at your fingertips.
And then you get slapped with your mortality and it feels like your world is crashing around you.
You have cancer.
You know what? Sometimes the chemo, the vomiting, passing out, and the ever-present thoughts of death wasn’t the worst part.
Sometimes, the worst part was sitting on your parents couch at twenty-one, wishing you were going out to that amazing party with all of your friends. Or watching your hair fall out in chunks in the shower. Your beautiful, personality-defining red hair just washing away down the drain. Or realizing part of your soul died when you asked your dad to shave your head because you just couldn’t watch the slow process of it falling out any longer.
Sometimes the worst part was looking at yourself in the mirror and just watching the tears stream down your face as you realized that this is your new reality. You are a twenty-one year old woman and you are bald.
Maybe the worst part was the steroids. Good God those things are evil. In a matter of weeks you transformed from that trim, vibrant woman that you were so proud of, into a bloated, chemotherapy-ridden sick person. You have that look of cancer and it crushes you.
And then there were those few moments where you felt good. You put on nice clothes, brush out your fabulous black wig and get ready for a night of normalcy. The drinks start to kick in, you start talking to a handsome guy. One thing leads to another, he leans in to kiss you and goes to put his hand on the back of your head…. and you freeze. Because you know the second he touches you he’s going to feel your wig. Your cover is blown, you are not one of the normal girls. And the last time I checked, most guys weren’t looking for a date whose chemotherapy schedule would have to be worked around.
So then you just stop going out. You realize this is temporary and it may not be fair, but it was the hand you were dealt.
You live with it.
You stop sulking.
Hair grows back.
Weight can be lost.
Love is still out there to be found.
The bars aren’t going anywhere and you can graduate next semester.
They caught it early.
You are going to be okay.
Other people have it SO much worse.
You will still get that whole wonderful life that you always dreamed about.
You are lucky fortunate blessed.
