New Year, New We, and the sweet smell of rotting dreams!

It's a new year according to the calendar.
I feel like we do it wrong and we should really start New Year on the winter solstice so we could all revel in the fact that the days are getting longer and the light is returning to life.
...Hey.
That's not a hippie thing to say--it's science, man.

I've got a lot of shit left to do to get ready for this Kiddo:

• Find a pediatrician
• Not turn into a waddling seacow with Mom butt and continue to exercise
• Figure out how the fuck I'm going to get a car seat into my twenty plus year old Jeep Wrangler
• Continue planning a party for the belly beast I haven't met yet
• Stabilize income
• Come to co-parenting terms
• Decide what to name the Babe
• Read books on how to actually raise the Babe
• Birth the Babe
• Stop Googling things like 'episiotomy' and 'health care reform'

It goes on and on and on.

Oh, 2018, you even numbered tease, you.
Oh, 2017, you 'practice makes pregnant' rollercoaster, you.

2017 was a jerk. As much as it feels like looking the gift horse in the mouth cuz shit could currently be a crap-ton worse, it’s difficult not to mourn my hopes, dreams, and expectations of 2017. The last few months have been gravely overshadowed by heartbreak and loss and have felt like a cruel time puzzle. I keep flashing to that one part of Labyrinth where Bowie has crappy Connelly babysitter trapped in one of his fancy clear balls in a big pink poofy dress and is tricking her into wasting Toby-saving hours.  It’s as if I have been living the same day over and over with no control over it’s improvement or outcome, floating forward-ish-ly through a hazy gray procession further into the unknown and alone. Each holiday... from Halloween to now...to today... being a reminder of what isn’t, what wasn’t, and won’t be.
Happy pills are helping me.
Thank you, happy pills. MVP of 2017. They help my brain sprinkle each thought with slightly less kerosene. They give me the ability to ride atop each thought like a calm cowboy and decide whether to buck the bronc home. They also make my legs twitch in bed.
They don't keep me from all the thoughts, from sadness or loss. They don't keep me from reflecting, on retrospect, on hindsight.
Again, just sliiiightly less kerosene.
I guess I'd like to scribble an ode to those thoughts. Allow them the space they're so feverishly and diligently still fighting for in new hopes that they disappear. They say labeling a feeling (without judgement) is a good way to be rid of a feeling--and by 'they' I mean the leaders of all the pregnant and depressed groups I've attended in the last two months as well as the self-help book authors... and pinterest.

I'm to FLOW
F-Feel it
L--Label it (without judgement)
O--Open the
W--Window to let it go

So.... let's crack the back door, shall we?


I mourn the loss of a big love, the one I chose to start a family with.
I mourn the loss of his friendship, his strength, his companionship, and his commitment.
I mourn the loss of a partner to walk through this pregnancy with, to hold hands and cling onto, and to bounce fears off and from.
I mourn the dream of our family, the three of us and holiday blessings that were to come with our future.
I mourn my concepts of self- worth and the ensuing battle of feeling not only knocked up and unworthy to wed, but knocked up and dumped, discarded at my most hopeful and vulnerable.
I mourn the lesser than experiences of my unborn child, how Nugget knows little music nor the sound of her fathers voice.
I mourn the death of my maiden self and the wild, untamed female I was forever committed to be.
I mourn the unknown transformation of my art and my ability to focus and pickup a paint brush for more than half a year.
I mourn the freedom of those around me who love me and the future cost of this love as a burden to their wellbeings and plans.
I mourn my physical self and the future scars of this physical upgrade as I battle tokophobia, body dysmorphia, insecurity, and every other self-hating statement rambling under my skin about my bones.



This is a really big year.
One I didn't see coming, one I never thought would happen, and one I can't control. My body is on autopilot, my future is multiplying, the '8' in 2018 reminds me of boobies, and I still wish I had a dog. Nothing will be the same ever again.

I mourn the illusion of control I once had.
I feel like I want to drive out to Pyramid Lake, light some shit on fire, and release the ashes.
Ok.
Yes.
That's some hippie witchy shit.

All the same,
May all these aspects, all these sides, all these part of me, all these thoughts of me, rest in calm peace and not stink up the future decomposing cuz I didn't dig a deep enough hole.
​