Month: November 2016

Ode to my Booty Call

Sitting here in my bathrobe.
Feelng dirty, used, and oh so satisfied.
He comes when I call. Like a pizza.
But he’s faster than a pizza.
Stronger than a pizza.
Harder than a pizza.
He fills me up like no pizza ever could.
He gives me sweet magic explosions.
Splashing fireworks.
Closeness to God.
My eyes are open.
My worries are gone.
And when we are finished with each other,
So is he.
Until, once again, I hunger.

Storms 2…

“Jesus wept.” -John 11:35

In the past when people have said, these kids are driving me crazy, I always laughed it off. I always thought it was a joke. It’s not a joke. I know that now. I know that because my own child literally drove me out of my mind. Going forward, when I refer to “the thing,” I will be referring to the thing that he did which drove me out of my mind. I cannot describe the thing again, or I shall go mad, once again, and I can’t allow that to happen. I still don’t know where he got the idea for the thing, and that is the most maddening of all. What I can say is that right now, he is behaving perfectly normal, as if the thing never happened, and I’m feeling mostly relieved, although somewhat perplexed about that.

To start, my child is different from most. He has special needs, and he was in a special class, with only six other little dull-faced children, who may not even be potty trained, and who talk even less than he does, but he has no diagnosis of anything actually the matter with him. His speech was delayed and he has trouble picking up on social cues. He also gets really wild and aggressive when he’s not getting enough attention or getting his way. The thing is, every single problem he has is something I can trace back to some mistake that I made. I handed him everything too easily without ever making him ask for anything or use his words. I discouraged his babbling because I found it obnoxious and didn’t understand why he insisted on incessantly filling the air with random face hole noises. Seriously that shit was cute for about three seconds. Then not so cute anymore. Then really annoying. I didn’t want him to be one of those people who never shuts up. I have to live with this kid. He’s my only child so he’s used to being doted on and maybe even worshipped a little. He basically immediately became the most dominant member of the family. Then I tried spanking him and that completely backfired and wound up angering him. I roughhoused with him because I figured that’s how a father would play with him, I don’t know, maybe I confused him? Look, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Mistakes were made. These are all mistakes I’ve made. Mistakes I’ve been working to correct over the past year or so, and for the most part, it’s been working. I’m pretty much in charge now, the kid is talking a lot more, he’s being way more respectful and well-mannered, understanding and respecting rules and boundaries, truly thriving.

The reason why the thing drove me out of my mind, is because it’s inconsistent with who he is and the sort of problems he has. My son has problems, but not this kind of problem. My kid can get aggressive and doesn’t follow orders, but he’s not a sexual deviant, and I sure as shit don’t appreciate that getting added to his list of issues. That shit is fucked straight up. Anyone without kids may not know that kids do masturbate and discover themselves, but mine is more along the lines of a public nose picker than a public masturbator. I never shamed him about it when he did do it, but he didn’t do it any more than any other normal kid, and to be honest, he didn’t do it nearly as much as I was expecting. If I discovered that I had a penis one day, I would probably spend a lot more time with mine than my son did with his. It was just, oh neat, this feels nice, whatever, what’s next? Oooh, check out these toes! Basically I think it was around age three that I told him that it was time for him to start doing that privately and, with a few reminders, he got it, no problem. Potty training was also extremely easy for this kid. It took a few tries, but when the time came, it was basically like pointing a kitten in the direction of the litter box. I can count on one hand the number of times this kid has wet his pants. Nothing has changed and the kid still doesn’t wet the bed or anything, I’m just saying it’s usually the bedwetters that are the pervy ones. My son doesn’t have any indicators of any abnormal sexuality. I don’t even think he’s gay, and it’s fine if he is, whatever. I’m just not seeing it yet at all, if he is. Just sayin, that’s the kind of kid I was dealing with.

Then the thing happened.

It wasn’t in any of the parenting books I’ve read. Nothing like it was mentioned in the normal developmental milestones charts. It wasn’t an escalation of any other related behaviour. The thing came from another planet and struck like a damned meteor from outer space. It’s not from my son’s realm of ideas and capabilities. As soon as the doctor told me I was having a boy, I knew I was in for a tough time, but I didn’t know what a run this kid would give me for the money. I want him to socialize and have friends but, at the same time, I want to protect him from the world. I want to protect him from the world but, at the same time, I don’t want him wearing my clothes when I’m dead and making lampshades out of people. I know boys will be boys and they do strange things. I’m finding out that a lot of the things I thought boys learned from their fathers, are actually things they are born instinctively knowing and doing on their own. My son hates shopping, hogs the remote, and watches Netflix with his hand shoved down the front of his pants. He likes farting, video games, and trucks. Some of his ideas seem to come out of nowhere, but this one, it doesn’t add up. I may not fully understand his testosterone infused little mind, but I know when something isn’t rightly making any sense, and this still doesn’t make any logical sense to me whatsoever. Kids don’t just leap from average normal self-discovery straight into… the thing that he did.

What’s most important to remember, during a time like this, is, firstly, that I didn’t kill anyone. Mostly because I didn’t know who to kill, or if I even needed to kill anyone at all. Secondly, no matter how the thing came about, whether someone showed him this, or whether he somehow managed to get this crazy idea all on his own, I still love my son very much, no matter what. But still, where in the hell did he get this idea? The choices are not pretty. Either my kid is a natural born sociopath, or some sort of deviant has messed with him. I’m not even an expert parent, let alone an expert in how to deal with this sort of crap, so I just slowly backed away, and started thinking, while trying not to think, trying to wrap my head around what just happened, while also trying desperately to scrub it from my brain and protect my sanity. I managed to ask a few light questions about where he might have learned this, and then I went to lay down because I was feeling sick in my guts.

The only person I could speak to was my sister, but I couldn’t actually speak aloud to her because I didn’t want to spook my child into shutting down about where his idea came from. As far as he knew, he did the thing, then mommy started feeling sick entirely unrelated to the thing that he did. I needed to keep it that way until I knew what I was dealing with. So we texted, which wasn’t very ideal. As a single mom, even having an open telephone conversation can be tricky. I didn’t send my son back to school, and he’s still never going back there, because that’s the only time in his life that he’s ever been alone with anyone who could have taught him the thing. I’ve been a single mom since day one, and my son has only been left alone with a very select few people. School is the first time he’s ever been entrusted to the care of any man I haven’t personally known for at least a decade. It’s also the first time he’s just randomly come home one day, triggered, traumatized, re-traumatized, and drove me straight out of my damn mind with the thing, the thing that he should not even know, the thing that he should not ever do, the thing that he should definitely not try to involve his own mother in doing with him. Seriously, what in the actual fuck?!? I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but this?!?

So now my son is home, I can’t actually talk about the thing with anyone, even thinking about it makes me feel queasy, and this all culminated to a head on Saturday, when my sister was coming to Toronto to buy a minivan from someone on Kijiji.

I had a plan. I’d done as much sickening online research on how to deal with this sort of thing as I could stomach, and I had a plan to have a nice calm and rational discussion with the good folks down at the sex crimes unit of the police department to see if my fears were justified, and what appropriate steps I might take next. This calm and rational discussion was to take place during the half hour that my sister would have my son at the park.

The plan went off the rails immediately when I called three times and nobody answered the phone. Within minutes after that I was somehow involved in a very frantic and irrational standoff with the police, in which I refused to tell them where my child was until I was promised that nobody would interrogate or frighten him or force him to have a rape kit done. I didn’t want my son to be re-traumatized by the reporting process. I couldn’t protect him from anything that was already done, but I wanted to protect him from things getting any worse. I already checked and there was no sign that anyone had hurt or damaged him, and he seemed to have no idea that anything wrong might have even happened. I needed to protect that innocence, but I couldn’t just leave the other kids in his class potentially exposed to a predator, and unable to even speak up about it. My son might be those kids’ only hope, but he’s still my only child. I had no weapons, no hostages, no plan, no clout, no leverage and I was so ill with dread and panic that I could barely think straight or even stand up, let alone stand up to the police and, to be frank, I’m quite lucky that they didn’t just taze the shit out of me, take my little boy away, and put me in a loony bin. I had about the amount of power that a fly has over a lion, but I was ready to ride or die for my child and king kong didn’t have shit on frail and shaky little me. I even played the race card, which was quite foolish and unnecessary since I’m so light skinned that I literally had to explain my race before I could even play the damned card. Before I go any further, I need to take this opportunity to apologize to the good folks down at the fifty-five division precinct of the Toronto Police Department. I am truly sorry and embarrassed about my erratic and panicked behaviour, and for the race card. Despite all that, I was treated very kindly, with much dignity and respect. My son had a fun and easy experience meeting the police officers and riding in the ambulance, and for that I am super-grateful. They could not have been more professional in handling the situation, although it would be nice if they carried some lorazepam on them for these types of situations, not every problem can be solved using only handcuffs and a gun, just sayin, one little lorazepam certainly would have deescalated the matter pretty much instantaneously. But despite the delay in getting me dosed up with the coping dope, thank you so much. I do owe them my thanks. I basically had a miniature mental breakdown, and those people see people at their very worst all day every single day. For all they knew I was some sort of tweaker meth-head making up a story and using my child in order to somehow get free drugs. They could have shot me in the face and moved on with their day, but they didn’t. I’m so thankful that they didn’t. I was losing my mind and raving like a lunatic, trying desperately to make sense of something that didn’t make any sense. My child was safely at the park, out of earshot, and I could finally speak openly about the thing. I could finally cry, and grieve, and stop trying so hard to pretend everything was fine. I could hear how agitated and mentally unhinged I sounded, but I just couldn’t bring myself to chill the fuck out. Thankfully, one of those officers was a mother, and when I described the thing to her, she understood exactly why I had lost my mind, or at least, she managed to convince me that she understood, while also convincing me to voluntarily go down to the hospital to get some sort of voluntary mental health check. They used the world “voluntary” a lot. Finally someone gave me some lorazepam, after those useless dicks at Med Visit refused to see me the day prior to this whole fiasco, and of course that helped immediately. I have one left, and I’m saving it in case this child does anything else to drive me insane. I always thought that was a joke. Mostly it is. The lorazepam is just in case.

After my son spoke with the proper detective and child protection agent we spent a few days with my sister’s family because I needed to rest for a bit. They were watching him for any odd behaviour, but nothing happened. We’ve since all questioned him, lightly, without any shame or accusations, just asking for information and promising that he won’t be in any trouble if he tells the truth, but so far, he’s saying nothing and acting completely normal. Not a single name, nothing. I’ve left it alone because I don’t want him to just make up a name to get me off of his back about it. His speech problems make it really hard to get the truth out of him, which is why I was so desperate to get him directly to the top professionals trained to speak with children in this sort of situation, so even if he gives me a name, it would have to be looked into before any conclusions could be drawn. If he gives me a name, I have the detective’s number, so I know what to do now. Knowing what to do is the easy part, the tricky part is actually doing it… I just hope he answers the phone… I’ve been known to act a little rashly when things don’t go according to plan.


“Then shall two be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.” -Mathew 24:40

Ugh, I need to sort my Hub file. It’s basically a Scrivener project with tabs similar to my site menu, but it’s where I store all my rough ideas and all the shit I jot down so I won’t forget. It’s mostly sorted, but I need to add and file this massive list of jotted notes from my iPhone, and sometimes I don’t know even why I’m doing this. I’ve only managed my way through a handful of short stories and at this rate, all my best and most challenging ideas won’t actually be penned out till I’m in my sixties. It’s getting to where I’m almost sad when something comes in that I know could be amazing, because I just don’t seem to have the talent to put it into the proper words. As a novice writer, it kind of irks me when people try to offer me story ideas. Sweet and well-intentioned so I’m always polite, but I already have the ideas. I already have the words. It’s the putting them all together the right way that is the actual work of it. I could imagine awesome and cool ideas all day long, and I actually did just that for a long time. I spent years being super-depressed and not wanting leaving my bed, or my home, unless I needed to. My imagination and my dreams were my main source of cheer and happiness during that time. Now I thank God for giving me such interesting and wonderful places to safely ride out the storm. But back then I begged God every single day to just let me sleep and live in my dreams forever and not hurt anymore. He gave me a choice early one morning when I awoke to frantic banging and screams that the house was on fire. It was an answer to my prayers. I could have just laid there and let it take me. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. I guess that’s why I’m still here and doing this now. I never had a life plan. More like a death plan.

That was many years ago. That fire wasn’t even close to the worst thing to ever happen to me, but the unfortunate events that transpired before and after the fire summed up a pretty devastating blow. Days before the fire I lost my job and my license got suspended for demerit points. Days after the fire, the solid rock of my childhood and the woman who singlehandedly raised my sister and I, the most incredible and strong woman I’ve ever known, she passed away. I had to get a ride back to the wreckage of my old house to pick out a dress for my Grandmother’s funeral.

The fire started in the basement when our drunk roommate decided to take a romantic candlelit bath alone, and then pass out and leave the candles directly beneath a towel rack. Virtually every surface of the house was covered in a fine black soot. Even though we tried not touch anything, we got covered in that crap every time we went in the house even just for a few minutes. It was everywhere. Everywhere except my bedroom, which was completely untouched and in pristine condition. Almost as if God knew that I would save myself and need a dress for my Grandmother’s funeral. I almost made my family go to two funerals, of two unrelated deaths, in the same family, at the same time. I’m so glad I chose to walk out of that fire.

There’s more to the story. The owner of the house had started using coke again, despite being seven years clean. He’d also started growing pot plants in the basement. I tried to warn him. I didn’t feel good about it, and I tried to persuade him to cool it with the dope and to not grow the stupid plants. He had plenty of money, he didn’t even need them. I love pot as much as anybody else, but you know what I don’t love? Taking stupid risks, and those plants were a stupid unnecessary risk, and look how that turned out. Everyone in that house had a stake in those plants, but I refused to have any part of it. I wish this was the first time I’d watched someone completely disregard my advice and immediately fall directly into disaster. I just don’t get too attached to people anymore. Of course the fire department snitched to the police and I had to watch the man’s kids get taken away, and they had to watch their father get arrested. Nobody else stepped up and claimed their share of the plants, not even the the girl who burned up his house. It broke my heart, and I’m sure it was a million times worse for him and his children. If he didn’t have those kids living in the house with us, I would have been all for the plants, but those kids raised the stakes much higher than the payoff… which was seized by police.

This happened in the year 2005. Five years later and things are starting to wear on me again. I don’t know exactly when, but my depression lifted after the fire. I felt like there had to be some reason why I got up and walked out of that fire when I didn’t have to. God doesn’t do things for nothing. If I had nothing here for me, I would have gone home right alongside my Grandmother. So, it’s five years later, I’m drinking again, sometimes getting a little high, basically killing myself again, although not depressed and miserable all the time, which is good. I’m fully functional, but I know I’m slipping. I’m still wasting my life on bullshit and parties, getting caught in the same old traps.

I start to pray for a soulmate. I ask God to send me someone who truly deserves all the love I have inside of me to give. Then my beautiful phoenix arose. My gorgeous little boy, who’s name is NOT Phoenix. My God-given gift of the strength to carry on in this world; my raison d’être. I asked God for a soulmate who deserves everything I have to give, and I ended up with a pure and innocent baby child. All my own, and I can love on him fearlessly for the rest of my life. He called me his hero the other day.

Bad things happen to everybody. There are people who are better off than me, and people who are worse off. I know that there will be more storms to bear in the future. God is my safe haven in the storm, he’s brought me through so many. I’m raising my son to be of good and noble character, and God is raising me. He’s preparing me for my place with Him, just like I prepared my own child in my womb. I can’t go until I’m ready, and crying about it isn’t going to help. I don’t even want to go yet, because I’m happy here with my son… Except for one thing.

It’s been five years since the birth of my son. A few hours ago he did something very odd and out of character for him. I can’t say what because that is private, but I can say that it was so disturbing I had to consult my big sister for advice, and she is concerned as well. Another storm may be on our doorstep, and I’m trying to pray my way out of it, but it might bear down on us, all the same.

As tough as this recent event is to cope with, I could never imagine having to walk alone without God’s guidance, wisdom, strength, and patience. Life can turn in the blink of an eye, and no one said it was going to be easy. My son will never know more about my reasoning and plans than I do, just like I will never know more about God’s reasoning or plans than He does. No one knows what the future holds, but I’m so glad I know who holds my hand.

Note: It’s pretty obvious from my blog that I’m not a traditional Christian and I’m no saint. If God called me for that, then that’s what I’d be, but that’s not the call for my life. My lot in life is what it is and my religion emerged and solidifed through study, prayer, meditation, faith, and experience, in that order. I do my best to always listen for that still small voice. It has never, ever, steered me wrong, and has saved my actual life more times than I can count.

Note 2: A girlfriend and I road tripped across Canada and I think we were… Idk, past Winnipeg for sure, and we were getting a bit sick and tired of each other and we went to a bar to break it up a bit, and I wanted to leave with this guy, and she didn’t want to come with me, even though the guy was super nice, and it would be fine. I didn’t like the guys she was playing pool with, and I told her to have her fun, but please don’t leave the bar with these guys. Please. Just. Don’t. Me and my friend went back to his place and chilled for a bit and it was pretty awesome, interesting, whatever, he told me we could stay with him for as long as we’d like, so then I called her. Basically that was the end of our road trip. She caught a flight home when she was released from the hospital, and I drove home on my own. Didn’t listen. Straight into disaster. I’ve seen it happen before and it sucks every time. I’ve ignored my own intuition and walked straight into disaster myself a few times. That’s how I learned to listen. It’s easy to just brush off a shady vibe and tell yourself it’ll be okay or that you’re just being paranoid. I feel awful for leaving her, but she’s an adult and I told her to come with me. I had no idea that’s how bad they were or what would happen or I would not have left her there. They just gave me an uneasy feeling and I told her they were not nice guys, but I guess maybe she thought I was jealous and trying to ruin her fun. She actually tried to get me to chill with them, but I refused. Sure glad I listened that time, and I wish to God she had listened too.