child custody

Cause You Are

I keep losing at 8-ball pool but i keep playing anyway I’m listening to Tool cause this sunny day was a rainy day I gotta lotta thoughts i wanna say but my demons and angels keep getting in the way  that sounded like shit and i just want to quit bullshitting around at this night’s last sip no it’s really not the last sip of the ship that is going down flaming while i do a backflip i just lied again because I can’t do a gymnastic i took lessons one time and i loved that shit but dad thought it not so fantastic he told me i would end my life by breaking my neck a mop he gave me told me to sweep up his deck….i love being punny because i think that  its funny and i love to laugh in my belly when things are smelly and putrid and rotting and the whole thing that i call my world is twisting and turning and i know im a girl or a woman i suppose i love to cover my face in panty hose and pretend im a rob ya and rape ya and say that i got ya cause you suck balls and i don’t like you but i want you to love me and think that I’m awesome as gold wait til you see how my life will unfold, so far it’s been bad with some sprinkles of good when Im doing the things they say that i should but when the words in their mouth don’t match the words in their motions it causes my heart to feel some emotion and the emotion is anger cause that’s the one i’m best at I can cuss you up one side then this side and that and sound like my old favorite doctor who is doctor suess many times in my life dr suess has been my muse especially right now tool still playing in my ear and all that I hear is vicarious  so near but I’m not queer cause you are.


i don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is who I obey.

When Your Liver Begins a Dialogue and you have to stop playing dumb

I feel my liver talking to me tonight…”Athena, I can’t do this much longer.”

I felt that vibe from my liver area earlier tonight.  I’ve actually been feeling it for a few months but I’d rather ignore it and pretend that’s not real.

I’m really good at pretending shit’s not real.  I have been exceptionally good at denying Hepatitus C for the past 15 years, so you’ll understand my relief at the knowledge of the newfound cure to hep c.  I don’t have to ignore it, anymore, because there’s a cure.

Seriously, when I was like 23, I ended up at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana.  I don’t even remember what sent me there.  I was probably just really tired and sick from shooting dirt.  I was homeless at 23, because I had been technically ‘homeless’ since I was 21.  My parents, my dad and my step-mom, who raised me, had “washed their hands” of me, and my real mom was as fucked up as I was, at that time.

My real mom drank herself to death and I guess the apple don’t fall that far from the tree.  Another way to say it might be:  maybe I am that bad of a soul that God wanted me to not only watch my mom drink herself to death, but wanted, also, for me to drink myself to death, too, while my five children watched.

So, at Charity Hospital, I remember waiting in a 14-hour line, the next thing I remember is being in a small examination room with a short, Indian doctor, who told me:  “YOU MUST NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BEER.  NO ALCOHOL.  YOU MUST NEVER DRINK AGAIN.”

I was feeling so bad that I’m sure I was like, “oh yeah, I’ll never do that again”, halfway meaning it.

I suppose I ended up drunk as soon as I could after being released from the hospital and getting me a bag of powder, then shooting it, and then becoming so paranoid that unless I had a xanbar, the only way for me to come back down was to get drunk.

The only reason I ever started drinking in my early 20’s was to kill the paranoid schizophrenia the cocaine induced.  I don’t use the term, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’, lightly, because when I shot dope, that was exactly my diagnosis.  Good thing coke made me skinny, or it would’ve been really hard to position myself in the middle of the side-by-side washer and dryer at that crack house that one time I did that for 4 hours.  My God, the auditory hallucinations alone were as real as, well, the real sound of police kicking in the door and asking for me by my name.

So the part of my abdomen that lies directly beneath the right side of my rib cage is decidedly tender and somewhat achy. I have also been experiencing some other symptoms that I care not to relate.  This sick feeling isn’t really freaking me out, but I think it’s causing the depressive state of mind that I have been ignoring, yet experiencing the last couple weeks….perhaps months.

In my normally depressed mood, I sleep til about 11:30 a.m. or 12:00, after having gone to bed no earlier than 3 a.m. Here, lately, I am not waking until 12:15 p.m and then continue to sleep until 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., when I went to bed by 9 p.m. the previous night.  I really don’t want to get up at 2 but I know my dog probably has to pee, so I get myself up to let him out.  And…my God, when I open that door and the sun hits me, I feel like the undead.  I hate it and wonder why it is that I don’t want to get up anymore.  I love the sun and there is nothing going on here, at home, that should make me not want to arise.  As far as the rest of my life/complaints go, things are fucking great.  In fact, things are better than they have been in a long time.

I really don’t have any complaints…except that one about my firstborn son and his mean and angry father.


So now I am at the metaphorical “CROSSROADS”.

Do I want to continue to drink, knowing that my liver light is blinking and bad kidneys run in the family?

Or do I want to just keep on keeping on, refusing to be a quitter, until I meet the reaper again, without him taunting me?

Fuck Decisions.

I hate decisions.


I thought I was gonna get to see charlie again but now i am sure I am not
And I gotta admit that it hurts alot
I know you think I never fought
But I have. …every day of my fucking only accomplishment I sought and
I have come to surmise that despair is my lot…
Just like that guy from Sodom…
Off topic now I love char right from the bottom and
Straight to the top of my heart
That organ ripped apart
It never stops bleeding
And always keeps feeding on foods that I’m needing. ….the people I love the most.

Mommy loves you,  Charlie….and I WILL NEVER STOP

SKIP TO 4:15

Witches And Rope Swings

I was so excited when my husband moved back into our home.  We had been separated for two years.  He moved in with his parents, and the kids and I stayed at our house.

When he moved out in 2009, our youngest child was only five months old.  We also had a one and half year old and a three-year old.  We also had my four-year old from a previous relationship and after my husband moved out, my oldest child, from my first marriage moved in with me.

Even though we were separated, I loved my husband very much and I was very faithful.  In fact, right before we separated I was “saved” and began attending church.  Since my husbands family consists, mostly, of STRICT SOUTHERN BAPTISTS, I thought that surely, that in Jesus saving me, his family would begin to like me.

I really did yearn for the love and approval of my in-laws but since I was a “wrong side of the tracks” girl, they never approved of me.

I never was really too sure of why they didn’t approve of me.  After all, my dad and my stepmother, who raised me are “upstanding citizens” of their community.  At that time, my step-mom was finishing her twenty-plus year career teaching at the biggest high school in the parish school district.  She even won the “teacher of the year” award, FOR THE ENTIRE PARISH, one time.

That was pretty impressive.

Nevertheless, my in-laws hated me from the second they met me and back then I was so green and naive about the ways of traditional small-town southern baptist wives, that it took me at least three years to catch on to the way my mother-in-law spoke to me.  I finally realized that every sweet, sweet thing she said to me was dripping with so much passive-aggression, that I believe if she didn’t live 25 miles away, the acid from her words would be able to traverse the distance, through the phone line, and melt my ears into a puddle.

For instance, absolutely every time she called me, she would open with, “Well, hey (my name), I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I laugh at how dumb I was then, because she usually only called me mid-afternoon.

When you have four small children…you don’t fucking sleep til mid-afternoon, unless you’re on heroin, and I wasn’t.

In retrospect, I am glad I gave her the benefit of the….didn’t know she was totally insulting me, because my reaction was always as sweet as a fresh peach cobbler.

“Awwww, no ma’am!  Me and ******** and ***********  outside playing while ******** inside taking a nap?  How are you, today?  I’m so glad you called, I have been meanin to call you but it’s hard to get a moment to come up for air with all these children underfoot….I’m so sorry, Ms. poo”.

I don’t think I ever realized the degree of hatred my husband’s family had for me until                 July 4, 2011, right after my husband moved back into our family home.

I was invited for the very first year to my husband’s family reunion.  It was held at a really cool camp ground on the Tickfaw river.  All of the family was there and I was as sweet and polite as anyone could be.

And, I was genuinely sweet and polite.

There were several children there, including our three youngest children, and everyone was having a really good time.  The water felt good, the day was nice, and there was much shade and covered picnic tables.  There was also great food there.

There were also two rope swings.

One of the rope swings was obviously for children only, but the other was way up high.  To get to the high rope swing, you literally had to scale a wooded hill about 20 to 30 feet high.  My five-year old son and my four-year old daughter started scaling the cliff to get to that rope swing.

My “mommy” kicked in and I was thinking, “oh hell no…my baby ain’t jumping in there first!”

By the time I had made the trek up the mountain to stop him, he had already mounted the rope swing and was plunging into the water.  There were a couple of other boys who followed behind him.

I made it to the swing right as my four-year old was contemplating swinging off into the water. She was a bit scared, and we were so far up above the water, that I was scared, too.  My daughter’s fear wasn’t swaying her decision to jump.

I suggested that we swing together, but my husband, at the time, who was waiting below, in the river, emphatically told me, “NO!”, that would not end well.  I thought about it and considered it, and agreed with him.  We were so high that I was not sure if she would be able to hang on to my neck, or that I would be able to hold the rope with my slippery hands, while she was clinging like a spider monkey to my neck.

There was also the consideration that she would lose her grip and drop as soon as we made the jump.  The thought of me, basically dropping my daughter into the very shallow embankment below scared the holy hell out of me.

My daughter was adamant jumping from this rope swing and I eventually conceded to allow her to jump, but I was going to do it first, so I would know first-hand, into what she would be jumping.

The countdown from ten started in my head.  I was scared.  This damn swing was REALLY HIGH. I am usually never afraid to do things of this nature, but I had a bad feeling in my stomach at that moment.

I think I just pushed myself off before I even got to “3”.

I swung through the air, my hands gripping that rope like if I let go, I was plunging into Niagra Falls. When I reached the apex of the swing, I looked down and I wanted to let go, but…OH MY GOD, THE WATER WAS SO FAR DOWN….I balked.

The rope started coming back down to make it’s return and I knew I would look like an idiot if I didn’t let go, so I let go.

I remember looking down at the water while also seeing, in my peripheral vision, my hands coming apart, releasing the tight grip I had on the rope swing.

I could be crazy, and many say that I am, but I know when I looked down I saw those waters part like I was running from Pharaoh’s army, leading the Nation of Israel behind me, wondering how we was gonna get through the Red Sea before Pharaoh’s army caught us and slaughtered us.


I my feet entered the water with my body following.

We didn’t make it far.

I felt the slimy mud shoot between my toes at the same time the realization that my ankle just collapsed and then the white-noise pain…..

I literally landed in about 4 feet of water.

I crushed my ankle.

I remember being under the water and feeling like all I wanted was to inhale two lungs-full of nothing but water so that I would not have to return to the surface.

I used my right ankle to pull myself up and straighten my crumpled body.

When I came out of the water, everyone was looking at me.

That is it….just looking at me.

I had no mirror there, and I am not sure what expression my face was making, but I know it was one which conveyed some sort of near-death excruciating pain.  My kids saw it…so did my former husband.

It took him a second but he came and got me out of the water.  I felt like I was going to pass the fuck out, it hurt so bad.

When he carried me like a baby out of the water, my feelings of shame and weirdness at being in such a vulnerable position with him, almost topped the pain that was radiating from my entire leg.

By the time my former husband laid me on the river bank my ankle was swollen.  I was not crying, but I know I was whining like a bitch.  I hated doing it, but seriously, this was, to date, my worst injury ever, hands-down.

He asked me if I was going to be ‘ok’, and I said, “yes…of course”.

Some of the family members came to me to inquire how they could help me. Being the sweet, southern wife that I was, I politely declined….why?  I surely didn’t want to mess up everyone’s good time!  That’s not polite, at all!

In about ten minutes time, my ankle and foot were equal in size to my calf muscle, and I have pretty large calf-muscles.  At that point, I asked my former husband to place me in a more comfortable spot than the side of the river bank.

He had to carry me, because now, my leg was completely unusable. Since he has pretty severe back injuries, himself, and it was difficult for him to carry me from the front, I hopped around and let him piggy back me to our truck which was parked about 50 yards from the picnic area.

Since it was apparent that none of the family were going to insist I go to the emergency room, I let my former husband place me into the passenger seat of his truck and I watched as he returned to the family reunion, as if I had not just broken my leg.

I plugged my phone into the aux plug of my former husband’s truck and tried to listen to some music and take my mind off of my throbbing leg. This was a pretty hard task because I had to sit at a weird angle to keep my foot elevated, which was become more and more swollen with each passing minute.

Right about the time my skin started turning a very dark purple, my ankle not even in the “cankle” category anymore, now just resembling something from the leg of a mutant, my former husband’s cousin, Dusty walked over and asked me how I was feeling.

I wish I would have been able to come up with something less polite and sincerely sweet than what I said, which went something like, “Well…it’s hurting pretty bad, but Ima be ok!”.

Dusty and I spoke for a couple of minutes before I asked him if he would mind helping me get the truck bed.  I thought that if I could sit somewhere which afforded me the ability to stretchm leg out, comfortably, that it would lessen the pain.

Dusty agreed and I felt so bad as he used every ounce of man-strength he had to escort me to my desired destination.  I could no longer to bear any weight, whatsoever, on my left leg, and my right leg and ankle were beginning to throb now.  My right leg and ankle were probably damaged, as well.  I know this because three years later, I feel it.  But at the time,  my left leg injury usurped any and every pain I may have been feeling on any other part of my body.

The truck bed did not help me feel any better.  It really didn’t matter how I situated my leg, it was horrible.  I looked at my left ankle, in absolute amazement.  It looked like an ostrich had somehow climbed into my body an laid an egg right in my ankle.

It really was amazing.

Even though I had given birth to 5 healthy, full-term babies,  I never imagined something so small and dainty as a woman’s ankle, especially mine, could be so huge and abnormal.  The egg in my ankle was bigger than any of my children before 32 weeks, in utero.

My ankle was knocked up.

Dusty stayed and talked to me for thirty minutes to an hour.

Bless his heart, I knew his family rarely had anything nice to say about him, but I didn’t realize what a black sheep he was until he stood there that fourth f July day, talking to me, being sweet, keeping me company while my leg increasingly became a personified prop from a cheesy 80’s horry flick.

The party wrapped up and the women-folk started cleaning up the plastic dishes and utensils about two and half hours after they cast their spell to make the waters part.

I was not taken to see a doctor until two days later.

The attending physician, who appeared to be in his early 60’s, stated, “This is the worst sprain I have ever seen in all of my years practicing”.

Although, NOT A BONE WAS BROKEN, every tendon and ligament from my knee down stretched then snapped, like rubber bands.

I was in a wheelchair for almost six weeks.

The tendons are still in a pile at my ankle.

Most days my ankle hurts and I just ignore it.

On the days right before a rain, it REALLY HURTS…and it makes me feel old, all predicting the weather and shit.



To Anyone Actually Clicking Hyperlinks

I recently I made a mistake and linked the wrong youtube account to an earlier post I made, named  YouTube (I have a ton of google accounts).  I do have A million and 22 something views on that particular channel, almost two mil on the other one and here is the right link:

I have no idea how I have gotten so many views except to believe there is a God…I don’t necessarily subscribe to the American Christian version of Him, but I do believe there is SOMETHING GREATER…I fucking have to believe that or else I would have suicided myself long ago.

No More Glue

I used to have children. They were my life.  They were the glue I never had.  They are people who really love me.  I mean…really….not even joking…THEY REALLY, REALLY LOVE ME…for real…. I was happy in this picture…Look at my house…it was so clean!  My Christmas lights were not flipping anyone off.  Yes, I was lonely, my children had no father, to speak of, at the time, and it was Christmas…but I had my family…the family that loves me….Hindsight is 20/20, ain’t it?

Babies….I’m so, so, so sorry….if I had only known….I love you so much…Mommy loves you so, so much.