Drowning in Velveeta

The depression can be so consuming. It is thick like Velveeta only it's getting thicker. Somehow I manage to pretend that everything is alright. She knows it's not. She hasn't "seen me laugh" in days....I am distant. I say that I am fine and continue to find mundane things to bitch about. The wedding decorations, the favors, the guy who cut me off in traffic, my job, my weight...the list goes on and on. Richard likes to say, "What it's about aint what it's about." So what in the hell is it about?!

Laying in bed the tears force their way through the dam that I have so carefully constructed. They come spilling over, forcing me cry out in ways I never want to hear again. Em's hearing aids are out for the night, so if I am careful she won't know. I sit in the bathroom in the dark...muffled sobs.

Begging God...for what I don't know...just begging.

Then a more sensible Amanda comes forward to "clean up this mess. You don't have time for all of this. You have work tomorrow. Plus you are being overly dramatic." So I did, then back to bed. But damn-it! The tears are back and in full force. The pain is overwhelming, the anxiety...I am on the verge of a panic attack. So now what do I do?! My mind is racing for a solution. Burning myself, cutting myself, gorging my face until I am sick...all are reliable options for making the tears and all of the emotions that go along with it disappear. I don't want to cut, so I settle for nail clippers...cutting my nails so short until they hurt...cutting cuticles. It's not working. Tonight I have two options; a razor or the cold mac-n-cheese in the fridge.

The brutal hiccups that I have as I type this should help you determine which path I chose. And I am at peace. The feelings have been stuffed. I will survive one more night. But this can't go on. In the last 2 months I have gained 20 lbs from all of the food-stuffing I have been doing. It's like I am trying to destroy myself, but if I am destroying myself who will save me? No one. I have no one. My mother, father, and brother are no longer capable of being there for me...I'm not sure they ever were. I was the mama there.

I am so scared that my wedding day is going to come and I won't be able to feel the love and excitement that the day will most definitely be filled with. I will be stuck in this fog, crying for my mother...wishing she could be there healthy and sober to help me choose my dress, and to tell me how beautiful I look, and how happy she is for me that I found someone to love me unconditionally who takes care of me the way my dad wasn't able to take care of here. She will cry a tear at our beautiful ceremony and dance to "We Are Family" by Sister Sledge. Smiling...happy...healthy. But that will not be. So as I work to plan this wedding into perfection with the hopes that it all will be just enough to distract me from the one thing that will be missing. My mother...my Mom. My family has ruined so many things in my life and have taken and taken until I have nothing to give...how do I keep them from taking this too?

Sorry for the somber entry, but it truly feels like sumo wrestler has be lifted from my chest. Until next time friends.

Love-

The Sparkly Queen

Father and The Other "F" Word

The nursing home called me today to let me know that they are sending my mom home. They informed me that her release date was scheduled for February 16, but my dad requested that she be home for Valentine's Day. Isn't he so romantical (please read with the utmost sarcasm). I was prepared for this day. I knew it was coming. My mother is not making any progress, has been sneaking and getting high, refusing to eat, and her weight has dropped to 98 pounds. There is nothing more that the nursing home can do for her. I have come to terms with this. My mother is not going to get any better. I agree that she should be allowed to go home and live whatever time she has left however she wants to live it...if that is with my dad...if that is totally loaded...whatever. I want just want her to find some sense of happiness.

What I am struggling with is that my dad is refusing any in-home health care for my mom. The bastard "doesn't need any help". Well tough shit mother-fucker this isn't about you...this is about my mother. Such a hard concept to grasp when your head is so far up your ass and your nose is so full of Oxy that you think the entire world revolves around you. Clearly, this makes me feel nothing but hate for him. It makes me want to call him every mother-fucking nasty name I can fucking think of. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It Always Starts The Same Way...

It is 1:00 a.m., and he’s still not home. My eyes are burning from the powerful need to sleep, so I close them and begin to drift. I remind myself again that he is not home and become more alert at the thought. Luckily my favorite show in a long line-up of Nick at Night programming is about to about to begin; the Patty Duke Show. I turn from my side onto my back, propping my head up with an extra pillow in an effort to better see my 15 inch television set and then I hear it... the rev of a 1987 Mustang G.T. pulling into the driveway two stories below my bedroom window.

I quickly turn off the television; pull the covers tightly around me up to my chin for protection and wait. My pulse is racing. I attempt to quiet the sound of my breathing as I strain my ears to hear his familiar movements downstairs. Despite the loud thumping of my heart, I can hear him in the kitchen. The door of the pantry slams shut, the fridge opens then closes, and is followed by the whirring of the microwave. I am sweating under the weight of my pink quilt, too afraid to move, listening intently. Ding…whatever concoction he has created for dinner is done. I hear the clanking of the utensils as he chooses a fork. Each heavy thud of his boots on the 1970’s yellow linoleum shakes my soul like thunder. I worry because he hasn’t taken his shoes off yet, this is the first sign that a disaster is coming. I become more agitated, my stomach aches from the butterflies flying around in terror. Click…I hear the lamp in the living room and a roar of applause as the downstairs television comes to life. Some late-night talk show. “Isn't it too late for Letterman?” my mind begins to wander and my body to relax, until I am startled back to reality by the sound of his plate on the coffee table and the creak of the couch springs as he rises from the sofa. “Please just turn off the lamp and go to sleep!” I plead with him silently from the depths of my mind hoping to will him into staying downstairs.

But no. Tonight we will not be so lucky. My small body tenses, I am trembling, though I am sweating profusely. The thud of his boots on the stairs as he begins to climbs leaves me feeling nauseous. I am worried that I might throw-up. Now is not the time. I need to be watchful... my mother might needs me. Finally, my dad reaches the top of the stairs, turning on the hallway light that is bright enough to light up a stage and busts through my mothers bedroom door. I imagine the light pouring into her room and wonder if it hurts her eyes...is she pretending to sleep like me. I hear her calm voice tell my dad to, "...be quiet you’re gonna wake-up Andrew.” My two-year old brother is sleeping next to her. I am shaking uncontrollably now, still unable to bring myself out from under the covers, paralyzed by the fear of what is about to take place. “Paul leave me alone!” My mother’s voice is rising in frustration and fear. I am being so silent that I am positive that I can hear the bruise forming on her arm as he grabs her with his large hands and drags her down the stairs. At this, I am finally released from my pink-quilt prison and I spring to my bedroom door. Opening it as quietly as I can so he doesn’t hear. At 8 years-old I stand guard at the top of the steps ready to intervene should things get too out of control.

When Awake True Life Hurts

Two hours, one sleeping pill and an anti-anxiety pill later and I am still AWAKE! I'm a hot mess and too numb to write. Thank God for the MTV True Life marathon!

Oh...wait...can I just tell you what Emily's father-in-law did today? (That's what I am calling my dad these days. It helps with the detachment.) As many of you know, I now handle my mother's finances...and since my dad remains unemployed, the government requires that I send him money every month. Gross right? Anyways, long story short, last month he needed his money sooner than my online bill pay could get it there...so I being the nice daughter that I am...purchased a cashiers check over the phone and authorized him to pick it up at the local branch. I of course, put an immediate stop payment on the other check which he promised to destroy once it arrived.


Well guess who called me today friends? Ummm...the bank. My dad deposited the check with the stop payment and has been spending it. Good lord! I mean #1. What kind of dumbass accepts a check w/ a stop payment on it? This was a check written off of their own bank. #2. What in the hell did he think he was doing? Did he think he was going to scam $800 off of me (actually my mother?) People, this makes me pissed everytime I think about it. I need to woosah that shit in a serious way.


Ok...for real yo...back to True Life...somehow it makes me seem a little less cray-cray. But just a little.

The Dyke-Duo Does Thanksgiving

Once upon a time, Princess Emily and her sinful yet sparkly Luva were invited to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with her father, The Reverend, and his family. In preparation, the lesbians practiced not dry-humping in public and avoided the words "fuck" and "pussy". In addition, the sparkly luva became a florist...making lovely arrangements as an offering of of peace.

The first was a collection of hydrangeas for the stepmother.

The second, a colorful arrangement of carnations for Opal-Pearl, Princess Emily's wonderful grandmother whom they both adored.

And so the trip began. The dyke-duo hop on their little red Rabbit and begin the journey to Johnson City. The sky was gray and rain was falling. Some might've called this foreshadowing.

As the little red Rabbit grew nearer to Johnson City, the dyke-duo became a wee bit anxious. The Luva got a pretty-little red "Happy F'ing Thanksgiving" zit.

And Princess Emily began to frantically binge on sunflower seeds.

Then looming in the distance, there it was...Jones Town...I mean Johnson City.

The family was quite happy that their Princess had returned home to them, but they were not quite sure what to make of her sinful Luva. Hmmm....is someone missing from this picture?

To determine her worthiness, The Luva was challenged by the family to an unusual game called Blarney Ball.

David, Princess Emily's brother-in-law, having earned his way in long ago tried to help the Luva by showing her how it was done.

The crowd looked on in suspense.

Unfortunately, the Sinful-Sparkly Luva did not rise to the challenge. And so she was banned to the swings. At first she was disappointed, but then decided to enjoy the silence and what had turned out to be a beautiful day.

Note to self: You are too short to be wearing pants like that.

Once her Luva was banished, Princess Emily was able to spend some quality time with her father, which was good. For the moment, they were both happy for they had missed eachother dearly, and The Reverend loved his daughter fiercely.

Finally! Opal-Pearl arrived!

"Mexican train anyone?" asked Opal-Pearl.

The sinful, yet sparkly, Luva had a great time.

The next morning the Dyke-Duo headed to Curra's in South Austin for a late breakfast, mimosas, and good company with the Beautiful Andrea.

Andrea is shocked to hear the Duo's Thanksgiving woes.

2 cups of coffee, 1 Bloody Mary, 2 Mimosas, 1 Iced Tea, 1 plate of eggs w/beans and 4 breakfast tacos later...the friends were happy.

Princess Emily and her Sparkly-Sinful Luva wave goodbye to Curra's, South Austin, and Andrea to begin their journey back home to Houston. On the way, they were sure to make frequent stops to dry-hump, say "Fuck", and yell "Pussy" like all good lesbians do.

The End

Note from the Sparkly Queen:

In all seriousness, I was very grateful to have the opportunity to meet Emily's father and his family. I know that it was a huge step toward not only accepting me, but also toward fully accepting Emily by inviting us to share their holiday. Some parts were very difficult, but others were wonderful. The food was great! Her stepmother did her absolute best to make me feel at home. By the end of the evening, her father hugged me goodbye and let me know that I was welcome back. Em's brother-in-law was very funny and her sister-in-law sweet. I feel closer to my partner now that I have a full picture of where she comes from. I have so much admiration and respect for her...always being true to herself no matter how difficult others may make it. In addition, I feel honored that it was important to her to introduce me to her father, knowing it would have been much easier for her to go without me. Em, if you are reading this...I fucking love you, you crazy pussy! Now let's dry-hump.

A Prescription for Detachment

"Detach with love." Al-Anon constantly reminds me to do this, but I am always left with the question of HOW? During my recent stay in Indiana I repeated this over and over again to myself...along with "The Three Gets":

1. Get off their backs.
2. Get out of their way.
3. Get on with your life.

My dad invited me to an NA meeting which gave me a new perspective, humbled me, and made me feel a sense of pride for my father that I am not sure I have ever felt. After the meeting, we talked openly about how our recent arguments had made us fee,...hurt, confused, and longing for a better relationship. We each apologized and walked away with a better understanding of the other.

When I told him goodbye, I knew I was ready to detach with love. I love my father and my family. I hope nothing but the best for them. It is their responsibility to make those hopes a reality.

So...on to the third "Get"...getting on with my life. I have been living their lives for almost thirty years; therefore, living my own feels a little-bit uncomfortable and a lot-bit scary. Where will I begin? Tea on the patio...I think that sounds good for now.

Reflections Smothered in PB&J

Over the weekend, I received the message below via MySpace from a girl I have known since elementary school.

I am writing this message to you and not really sure where to begin! First off, I know that I wanna say how sorry I am to you! I spent the better part of my 30 yrs thinking that your life was all peanut butter and jelly. I have known you, from a distance of course, since Maplewood days, and prejudged you! I had no idea what you went through all throughout your childhood and apparently throughout your adulthood thus far! After reading some of your blogs several months ago I realized that you were not the person I had always thought you were...you were much more. And today after reading your sparkly queen tales, I found myself with tears in my eyes for more than one reason. I am happy that you have found someone that makes you as happy as Emily does! Take care of you and the family you are making with her. Always remember that you can't change other people (i.e. your family). They are who they are gonna be....it took me a long long time to figure that one out!

This message caused me to reflect on several things...
1. How hard I have worked throughout my life to keep my family's secrets. I am exhausted and cannot do it any longer.

2. How heavy a burden it was for my 8 year-old self to carry so much guilt and shame. These things were not my own to carry, and I am done.

3. Growing up I denied myself the opportunity to truly connect with people by hiding. I will always be true to myself.

4. Peanut Butter and Jelly isn't just for lunch anymore! B.B. thank you so much for your lovely message. This one's for you...

Oh Brother Where Art Thou?!

So I'm chatting with my friend at her desk when a call comes in. "An unidentified male has just been shot at the Shell located at 9th and Vine..." I watch her quickly log the notes into her laptop. My stomach, once happy from a dinner of queso, tortilla chips and olives in the shape of penguins, hits the floor. My body quickly fills with lead with each "mhm" or "yeah" that leaves her lips. She is typing fast.

"Just tell me, " I demand. She attempts to reassure me that we don't know anything yet. They might not know...but I do...a sister can feel a loss this great before her mind is able to process the reality.

The waiting...the waiting seemed to take days, but it was only a matter of minutes until my name was called. Called for what? Well clearly, my name was called so I could stand in a line longer than the one for a women's restroom at a lesbian bar on Pride Night. Oh no, not me...nope...not waiting any longer. I need my eyes to catch up with my heart. I literally run, and those of you who know me... you know I DO NOT run, and hop on the elevator.

"Ma'am, it is not your turn. You need to wait until your name is called."
"I need to know RIGHT NOW if that is my brother down there. Fucking take me to him!"

We go down several floors before the elevator stops. She grabs "Jon Doe's" file off the counter behind which a woman sat reading a romance novel, never acknowledging the significance of this moment. Not seeming to realize that in a matter breaths my life as I know it will crumble. I, unfortunately, am acutely aware of all of this. My hair is standing on end, there is a sweet taste in my mouth threatening to evoke vomit and I am numb.

I don't remember much after that, but what I do remember is the car ride home with my dad's sister. Why she was the one to pick me up I will never know. I had a small box on my lap with belongings that were not my own nor my brother's, but instead the jewelry of my brother's killer. My 21 year-old cousin pulled the gun from behind the counter of the classy gas station where she works the night shift. Maybe she was just showing it off...maybe she was offering it to him in exchange for just one more Oxy (a deal my brother would've accepted at one time, but The God Father a.k.a. "Dad" said no more guns...he was putting his foot down.)

I'll pause here for the dramatic "ohhhhhhs." and "ahhhhhhs" that typically follow my dad putting his foot down. That foot stopped carrying weight for me on Christmas of 1996 around 11:00pm. I was finishing up packing for my trip to London, a trip I worked to finance, he came home drunk and.... "I'm putting my foot down! Your not fucking going!" Ummm...yeah...whatever dad. Of course I cried then, but I knew that I would go the next morning regardless of what he said.

Whatever intentions my cousin may have had, it doesn't change the simple fact that in less time than he needed to take a drag off of his Marlboro Light my brother's life was gone. So hours later, riding in my aunt's car I am sickened by the fact that I am holding her shit. A necklace given to her by our grandfather to show his love. My brother is dead, and I'm holding a reminder of how little we mean to this side of the family. They are relieved that he is gone. My dad can "finally get it together without Andrew holding him back." What the fuck ever!

I can't stand it...it is all happening too fast yet I am in slow motion. I look out the car window and see the most amazing sea of colors. "My brother would've liked this." I say to myself. "Oh God...my brother!' This is a guttural sob that comes from somewhere so deep inside it shocks me. The sobs continue as look at the sky, screaming for my brother and mourning his life. Yes mourning his loss...not my own. The loss of his childhood, the loss of time with his son, the loss of the opportunity to live life sober, the loss of the opportunity to see the successful and responsible man that I had faith he would one day become. Me...I'm mourning the loss of time. Time with him...the beautiful, funny, smart, caring, nurturing, and talented young man he once was. The screams continue to rip themselves from my body, leaving behind holes and tears in my soul. I worry that this time, duct tape will not be enough to mend what is broken. Emily reaches from the back seat to comfort me and to try to pull me back from this dark pit into which I have fallen.

She is successful. I am laying next to hear, snuggled in close in our bed in Houston. Em is leaning over me, rubbing my back and arm. Tears are streaming down my face and my breathing is short from the screaming. She couldn't understand what I was saying, but she knew that I needed to be woken up. My nightmare was too much for me to handle. "I've got you," is all she says, wraps her arms around me, and I continue to sob. I am not ready to lose my brother and in so many ways I already have. I want to call him now, hear his voice, tell him how much I love him, but I fear that he will not be in his bed. I am lighter after blogging this out. The medicine ball that lives on my chest is now the size of a manageable peach, which I may snack on later.

Note to Drew
Where ever you are, know that I love you dearly. You are my heart. I have a bond with you that I share with no other person in this world. This bond can never be broken. I need you in my life. I am proud of you for being a survivor. I miss you.

Love-
Sissy (The Sparkly Queen)

Daddy Dearest

I had a difficult conversation with my Dad today...very difficult. One that included him calling me, "stupid" and hanging up on me. I had no idea that the word "stupid" could cut a person so deeply beyond the first-grade lunch table. But it most certainly can. I've got the marks to prove it. We were arguing about my mother's Medicaid application. Simply put she needs Medicaid to get the medical care she so desperately needs,and he just wants her money; therefore, he wants me to pull her Medicaid application and to start sending him her entire SSI check each month. Not gonna happen. Once I informed him of this he went totally ape-shit crazy. It was like living on 8th street all over again, only this time I am not 13, and I don't have to stand by while he talks to me like an abused dog. I want to find compassion in my heart for him, but I am struggling. I want to believe that he really loves my mother, but I am struggling. I want to not eat that entire pan of brownies downstairs, but I am struggling.

Pancakes and Oxycontin

This morning I woke up feeling unmotivated and simply put...sad. So I crawled out of bed to make breakfast for the hot red-head lying next to me. Chocolate-chip pancakes. For me there is something therapeutic about cooking for other people and seeing them enjoy my food. I think this may be a common trait of fat-girls everywhere. Take Paula Deen for example. We are like crack pushers.

So, here she comes (the hot red-head...not Paula Deen) down the stairs into the kitchen. She tells me I look cute...and OH...DID I LOOK CUTE! She kisses my cheek and proceeds to make a peanut-butter and honey sandwich that she wraps in foil. Why foil? I am not sure, we have baggies. Then we proceed with our morning conversation...

Me: You want some
breakfast?

Hot RH: No thanks.

Hot RH: Are you sure you don't want to take
it
with you?

Hot RH: No thanks. Are you O.K.? You look
really
tired.

Me: Do I?

Pause for reflection on my tiredness. I think I look refreshed...don't you?

Hot RH: What are you going to do today?

Me: I haven't decided yet. I have no
idea.

Hot RH: Ok, well I'll see you at 11:30.

Me: Ok. Have a good morning.

The hot red-head leaves, I eat a pancake, and I get angry. Now I have this entire stack of fucking pancakes, and I am fuming. Whatever. We have our first couples therapy appointment today at noon. Maybe that can be our first topic of conversation..."Em doesn't appreciate me when I make her foods that she doesn't like/want." How fucking lame is that? Let's get real. This is not about Em, nor is about pancakes.

I think I really need to go back to what I have learned in my own therapy sessions and ask myself, "So what is this REALLY about?" Because Lord knows, it is not about chocolate-chip fucking pancakes. It's about me needing to feel appreciated. Like what I do matters to someone...anyone. I have never been enough for my family. They always want more. I was just in Indiana for 3 weeks to begin cleaning up the huge mess my family has created. When I would go to the nursing home, I would always be armed with clean clothes, meals, snacks, flowers, pictures...you name it...and the response would always be, "Why didn't you bring ____!" Fill in the blank. I spent hours cleaning their apartment, hired a crew to haul out the piles and piles of shit that covered the floors. Wiped down tables covered with white powder residue, remnants of crushed Oxycontin, Hydrocodone, and Xanax. Boxed up empty bottle after empty bottle because I couldn't drop them into the dumpster due to the large number of bottles, the illegality of the doctor shopping that my family has done, and for fear of raising anymore suspicion about the "business" they were running.I bought groceries, did laundry, took them to numerous doctor's appointments, fought w/ the directors to keep my mother in her nursing home, went on an endless scavenger hunt to collect all of the paperwork and evidence needed to just to begin the Medicaid application process. If the words "thank you" dared to leave their lips, it was only if their right hand was simultaneously extended in need. I have left my job, my home, my life and for what? Does what I have done even matter? Has it made a difference? Or, at the end of the day, will my family go back to living in filth, snorting pills, guzzling methadone, and will I just continue to make pancakes in hopes of getting the validation I so desperately and pathetically seem to need?