We’re moving!

It just seems wrong to talk about dating and moving and being single on a blog entitled BabyBound.  Right?  Right.  I’m pretty sure that would effect the second date.

Time to start a new blog for a new life.

(Don’t worry, I’ll probably still talk about my naughty bits.)

O yeah, I write a blog.

Where do I start?  Everything is different.  Like so different that I am pretty sure I’m thin and awesome now.

Hmm…First off, I got a job.  I know right?  Awesome.

Well yes but its in Seattle.  Which means I am moving to the rainy state.  Isn’t that exactly where someone going through a massive depression should live?  Just keep the flannel and heroine away and I should be fine.  It’s not really all that different from San Francisco.  We don’t see the sun for weeks around here.

I’m also selling my house.  Thankfully there are some decent advantages to being OCD about labels and cleanliness when it comes to preparing for this.  I basically had to move a chair and call it a day.  Phew.  But That didn’t stop me from going insane trying to make everything perfect perfect.  I’ve been runnin around like a Mexican jumping bean cleaning, organizing, paring down, staging, and most importantly, boxing up all Mark’s shit and throwing it down the stairs.

O speaking of Mark, yeah he’s back in San Francisco.  Not here at the house, but here.  He’s chosen to take up residency in the area of SF we all lovingly refer to as the Tenderloin (aka, were you go to score your drugs).  We are being civil, but not talking.  Just dealing with the divorce and the house sale as if we are coworkers.  At this point, that’s about all I can handle.  He’s still lying, using, and self destructing and its killing me to watch it.

I am thinkin about getting a new blog.  This one seems a bit umm…shall we say…irrelevant?  Stay tuned.

So that’s me.  Thank you to everyone who’s checked in with me.  I miss you all too.  I’m just not the same person right now.  I’m some facsimile of BabyBound.  See?  I’m not even clever.  I hope to God that Mark didn’t get that in the divorce.  Cause that’s totally my thing not his.  He can have my bad spelling, emotional wreckness and inability to sleep well, but he can’t. have. my. whit.  (anyone else think my face should be half painted blue when they read that?  I did…)

Because you shouldn’t have to wait until to have breasts to start breast feeding

Umm.  Perhaps yes.  Yes you should.  This is the most fucked up shit I’ve seen since the shaving baby (Which also happens to be featured in this list of the top 7 most inappropriate toys).

Why do little girls need to pretend to breast feed?!?!  What purpose does this serve other than helping a pedophile get off under the guides of “playing grown up”?

How did this pitch go in the board room?  Was there research from a medical professional showing great advancements in child development when given small flower pedals as nipples and a doll that latches on?  Did they have a prototype?  O God.  Did they have little girls playing with the prototype? Surely the girl on the box is currently living in a safe house under the watchful eyes of psychiatric doctors right?  Right?

Jesus Christ.

Please. Let me be sad.

I love my friends.  I really do.  I have great people around me that have been nothing but supportive.  Most of who read this blog so clearly any and all barking will not be done here…after today.

However…

I am really having a hard time with them.  Nobody will let me just be sad.  I’m fucking sad ok?  Just let me be sad!  Let me morn.  Let me miss him.  Let me cry.

I get it.  He’s a pig.  Yeah yeah.  But the more everyone sits around and tells me he’s a dirt bag, the worse I feel.  It isn’t helping.  In fact, it feels like judgment.  It feels like everyone ganging up against me.  Like I’m no longer allowed to have my own thoughts or feel my own feelings.  Like everyone around me is so afraid that I’m not going to do what it is that they want me to do that they forget that I’m a person that just lost her husband.  Let me be a wreck.  Let me say I miss him!!

Someone recently told me that 97% of my relationship was a nightmare and that I should just move on.  Wow.  Do they really think that I stuck around for 3%?  I mean common.  That’s just insulting.  Do I come off as that weak?  I can’t even imagine what that would look like.  Can you?  3%?  That would mean about 5 hours a year  with Mark were OK.  WTF?   I’d really like to think I’m stronger than that thank you.

It wasn’t until 2.5 years ago that things started to go sour with Mark and I.  Up until then, our 7.5 years together had been almost perfect.  We never fought.  We had fantastic sex like rabbits.  Mark loved every inch of me – and I him.  It was as if there was nobody else on this planet that could make me that happy.  We were even kicked out of the preliminary marriage counseling because we were told in the first session that it was “unnecessary” for us.  Mark and I were fantastic.  We had excellent communication with each other.

So what went wrong?  Well that’s a loaded question.  A few things:  First, our pride and joy, Daisy was killed and it seemed as though our world ripped apart.  We had failure after failure at pregnancy.  Then, we moved to San Francisco – a decision that I think was probably at the top of our stupid list.  Several big changes, and a lot of bad decisions.  All in all, life happened.

We used to be a disgustingly adorable couple.  We made people jealous of us.  Mark isn’t evil and I refuse to believe that he is now. There is a huge difference between evil and illness. He is sick and unwilling to get better.   I understand that.  I accept it.  But Jesus Christ I don’t have to like it.

Let me be sad.  I need to be.  I need to morn and cry.  For god sake let me cry.  I need to do this.  I need to remember why it is that I married him.  Not because I am looking for a reason to get back together with him.  I’m not that weak.  But the more everyone tells me he’s horrible the more they are judging me.  My choices.  My decisions.  My life.

It’s not what I need.  It’s not what I want.  I want to cry.  I need to cry.  And I don’t need to be told what to do.  I think I’ve proven already that I make decent choices.  Stop making it seem as though I’m incapable of doing so.

Let’s take inventory shall we?

I’m all over the place.  Relieved, sad, devastated, bored, scared, petrified, lonely, fat, tired, exhausted, sick of talking, bloated, hungry, sick, nervous, alone.

But not happy.  The one thing I am not is happy.  This may have been the right thing to do.  It was.  But nothing about it represents joy.